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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222268">Nineteen Thirty-Eight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameSpaceSkunk/pseuds/MadameSpaceSkunk'>MadameSpaceSkunk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tintin - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Desperation, Eventual Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Melodrama, Nazi Germany, Nazism, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pathos, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Suicidal Thoughts, World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:42:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,837</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222268</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameSpaceSkunk/pseuds/MadameSpaceSkunk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hopeless love in a deeply homophobic society. Unexpected allies. WWII right around the corner.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Archibald Haddock/Tintin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>97</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Eighteenth of May</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this story, Tintin was born in 1911 in Belgium, and Captain Haddock in 1889 in France. Tintin is therefore 26 (going on 27) and Haddock 49 in 1938. They have known each other for nine years, having met in 1929 aboard the Karaboudjan when Tintin was still a teenager. Milou died a year earlier, in 1937, and is buried in Moulinsart. Tintin lives alone, in his good old little flat in Bruxelles.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He knew it was true. Of course, he did. Even as a child he had known, years and years before being able to put a word on it.</p><p>There was no point in trying to deny the truth.</p><p>It was over.</p><hr/><p>It was a sunny Wednesday morning. Wednesday, the eighteenth of May, 1938. He had just come out of a quick meeting with his delighted editor-in-chief about his latest piece on Eastern Polynesian culture when the accusation came out of nowhere, like a speeding car suddenly veering out of its lane towards him. It was uttered loud and clear by a male voice to his right. It was a short, simple sentence, its final word like a slap to the face. Tintin’s heart gave a painful jolt and his feet stumbled to the side from the invisible blow. He had been walking towards the stairway, the content smile of well-accomplished work on his face. He stopped, completely frozen for a moment, then, although barely able to breathe, he managed to turn round to have a look at his accuser. It was the intern who had always been so cordial to him, even eager to speak to him on every occasion, as were so many of his admirers. His name was Georges, Tintin remembered. He couldn’t speak, and apparently neither could Georges, the full scope of what he had just done tragically dawning on him seconds too late. One could read many conflicting messages in his eyes. <em>I hate you. You disgust me. I love you. What have I done? I’m sorry</em>.</p><p>Why here? Why now?</p><p>Tintin found himself inexplicably memorizing his face, like a dying man searching something in his murderer’s in the delirium of his own agony. <em>There’s only humanity there</em>, he vaguely thought. <em>Just a human being.</em> He had, after all, always been a humanist, and therefore felt no anger, just fear, but it was a kind of fear he had never experienced in all his years of perilous adventures.</p><p>He had naively thought this day would come much later in his life.</p><p>He wasn’t ready.</p><p>There was dead silence, so unusual in the vast and crowded newsroom of Le Vingtième Siècle. All eyes were on him. His own left Georges to look at the floor, and to his horror, they welled up. His cheeks grew hot. Everyone was waiting, mouth agape. Their dear Tintin was about to strike back, to defend his honour, to deny that sickening slander.</p><p><em>This is it</em>, Tintin simply thought before walking out without a word.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Last Bow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Skipping his earlier plans to grab lunch at the Café Métropole and spend his afternoon at the library later on, he headed straight home, focusing his entire mind on the clicks of his own heels on the cobbled pavement. The sun was too bright. Its glare was turning the cream facades of his beloved city into blinding mirrors. He kept his head down, pulling his newsboy hat even lower on his brow and rolling up the collar of his trench coat over his cheeks. He was too hot like this. He made a mental note to wear a short-sleeved shirt the next day.</p><p>
  <em>It’s alright. You’re alright.</em>
</p><p>As he reached the quartier des Marolles where the flea market was still a charming mess at this hour, the streets filled up with men, women and children breaking into a smile at the sight of the famous boy reporter. After a decade of highly publicized adventures, simply rolling up his collar did little to avoid getting recognized. He didn’t mind. He would always wave and smile back. People were kind and respectful. They all loved Tintin, their “national treasure”, as one British journalist had once put it. Seeing so many faces beam at him always made his chest warm. Today, it was filled with ice.</p><p>‘Eh! M’sieur Tintin! M’sieur Tintin! Allez-vous enfin r’prendre un chien?’</p><p>‘Oh, v’là Tintin!’</p><p>‘Oh, regarde, papa, Tintin, là!’</p><p>‘Bonjour Monsieur Tintin! <span class="st">À </span>quand un nouvel article?’</p><p>He never answered any of their questions. He would always just smile, simply smile.</p><p>‘Eh, Tintin! Toujours célibataire?’</p><p>His pace and heartbeat quickened at the giggly apostrophe. He was sweating too much. He had to get home before he lost control.</p><p>Before his smiley mask fell.</p><p>The little elderly man he saw almost every day walking down the Rue de la Chaudronnerie greeted him by lifting his hat, as he always did, and Tintin returned the gesture, this time with a genuine smile on his face. The man’s eyes were always filled with such tender admiration for him...</p><p>Suddenly, he had to swallow a sob as he pictured those eyes glaring at him with cold disgust.</p><p>Soon, all of them would know.</p><p>
  <em>How many of them will still smile at me? None. Some of them will, but it will be an awkward smile, furtive and filled with pity.</em>
</p><p>His breathing turned shallow. He stopped and squatted, pretending to tie his shoelaces while trying to take deep breaths. When he straightened up, the world swayed a little. He had to get home right now.</p><p>Would that boy still call out his name? Would those girls still blush as he walked past them? Would that man—</p><p>THUMP.</p><p>His face collided with a broad chest. Deep, thunderous laughter soon followed. He didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. He had in his life only heard one man laugh like that: the enormous Professor Bergamotte.</p><p>‘Tintin, mon garçon! How d’you do, my dear?’</p><p>He found it a bit odd to be still called a boy so many years into adulthood, but it was no wonder as he still very much looked like a boy. His juvenile features and limited height were surely to blame. <em>Perhaps I should grow a moustache</em>, he vaguely thought.</p><p>‘Professeur Bergamotte! What a surprise! Forgive me, I hadn’t seen you...’</p><p>‘Hahaha! Still on the moon, are we?’</p><p>‘Hehe, I suppose...’</p><p>He had to take a few steps back to have a proper look at the professor’s face since the man was positively towering over him. He soon regretted his move, however. Professor Bergamotte frowned at the full sight of his sweaty face.</p><p>‘Are you alright, my boy?’</p><p>‘Yes. Yes, I—It’s just—I think I might have eaten… bad shrimps, I figure. Nothing to worry about’.</p><p>The professor didn’t reply right away. Instead, he continued to eye him carefully.</p><p>‘Do you want me to accompany you to a doctor’s?’</p><p>‘Oh no, no, no, no, I’m quite alright.’</p><p>‘You look about as pale as a tablet of aspirine, boy… I hope you’re not overworking yourself...’</p><p>‘I’m not, I promise you. I’m just… heading home. I’ll just rest for a while.’</p><p>The professor seemed to ponder something for a moment, as if trying to figure something out.</p><p>‘Take good care of yourself, will you?’</p><p>‘I will, professor. Thank you.’</p><p>‘If you need anything—’</p><p>‘I know, thank you, sir. I’m sorry, I—I’ll go now. Good day, professor.’</p><p>‘Good day to you, my dear boy.’</p><p>
  <em>I’m not a boy anymore!</em>
</p><p>He couldn’t help but imagine Professor Bergamotte’s reaction, and with it, a certain someone’s. He ran a clammy hand over his face in a weak attempt at pushing the thought away. He couldn’t allow himself to think about him now. Not here, not now, when he was exposed to gawking passers-by. He had to get home. He had to get home as fast as possible without breaking into a run. As he hurried past the imposing building of the Mont-de-Piété, he tripped against a broken cobblestone and nearly fell head first onto the hard pavement. Nearby, three boys who had been busy playing with marbles cackled at the sight.</p><p>‘Attention à vous, M’sieur Tintin!’</p><p>‘Z’êtes dans la lune, M’sieur Tintin!’</p><p>Oh, how they would laugh when they learnt what he was…</p><p>Now more than ever, he felt like an actor, and the thought that this might be his last performance as the most beloved boy reporter in Europe was dizzying. When he finally reached his street, he couldn’t restrain his urge to run anymore. Once finally at number 26, he shouted a distant ‘hello!’ to his concierge as he was already climbing up the stairs two by two.</p><p>It took him several excruciating seconds to unlock his door with his trembling fingers. When it was finally done, he pushed it hard and stepped inside his small flat like a man fleeing fire, slammed it shut with his foot, then immediately sank to the floor to begin a long series of push-ups, not even caring to take his coat off. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... He stopped counting after twenty. Eventually, he collapsed, utterly spent, breathless and drenched in sweat. The bath he took next didn’t soothe his heart. It was still racing afterwards. He avoided his reflection in the mirror as if he would find a ghost instead of his own face in it and put some fresh clothes on robotically. A few minutes later, he found himself aimlessly pacing around his flat. He turned the radio on and settled at his desk to sort his papers out, even though they were already pretty well organized. He tidied up his entire flat which didn’t need tidying. He made himself a couple of fried eggs and swallowed them in record time, his right leg bouncing nervously under the small table.</p><p>Even in the safe cocoon of his bed that night, after hours spent in his armchair trying and failing to read, his heart was still racing. At around two in the morning, his desire to call the Captain grew so strong that his entire body shook from the effort not to. He switched his bedside lamp on and off at least a dozen times. Eventually, he settled at his desk with the intent to write his anxiety away, grabbing a pencil and almost knocking a bottle of Indian ink over in the process. Then, he tore a piece of paper from the immaculate sheet that was firmly locked into his typewriter and brought the tip of his pencil down against it. He stayed like that for a long time, not knowing what to write, and then afraid of knowing it and of even moving his hand. Eventually, it moved, as if on its own, as if to make him see the truth, the one that Georges had shouted at him, the one that had resounded like thunder in the entire newsroom, the one that he had been unable to deny, the one that he had therefore confirmed, when it would have been so easy to brush it off with a scoff. But he had not done it. He had not said anything. In a way, it had been like suicide.</p><p>For a long moment, he simply stared at the three words he had just written.</p><p>
  <em>Je suis homosexuel.</em>
</p><p>After that, he couldn’t stop. Horrendously pathetic and sentimental sentences came out of him like vomit. In some of them, he addressed the Captain directly; in others, a God he struggled to believe in. When he ran out of space, he dropped the pencil and only then realized that he was weeping. He squeezed the piece of paper into a ball and threw it into the dustbin. Then, suddenly, he froze, something dawning on him. His right hand abruptly reached for the lowest drawer of the left side of his desk and retrieved a lighter from it. He picked the ball of paper up, unfolded it, flattened it, took one last long look at it, then held it in his left hand, and with his right, proceeded to light it up. He watched as his gesture gave birth to a single elegant flame which rose and consumed the shameful evidence, his hazel eyes mesmerized by its beautiful orange dance.</p><p>A horrible memory flared up along with it.</p><p>It had been more than a year ago. A few weeks after Milou’s death. Sensing a dangerous wave of depression coming, he had decided to finally confront what he had chosen to ignore for so long, and had spent hours and hours in the Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique perusing the most recent scientific papers on homosexuality with the hope of finding a cure for himself.</p><p>It had been a mistake.</p><p>He had read things that he shouldn’t have read. Things that had scarred him. The memory was one of them. Watching the growing flame, he thought of the two men who had been burnt alive in Paris in 1750 after having been caught together. Jean Diot and Bruno Lenoir. He would never forget those names. For months after that fateful visit to the library, he had thought about them in the dead of night, imagining their story, imagining their love within the quiet confines of his own tortured mind. Imagining their deaths. The flame was almost touching his fingers now. For a brief moment, he considered letting it, wanting to feel what they had felt. He stopped himself at the last moment, extinguishing the small fire with a few flourishes.</p><p>The memory expanded. He saw himself opening a large brown volume in the silent hall of the giant library, searching for the right chapter. Homosexuality… Homosexuality… Page 235.</p><p>The first word that had caught his eye had been the word <em>incurable</em>.</p><p>“<em>An incurable mental illness rooted in childhood trauma”</em>.</p><p>Incurable.</p><p>That word had glued itself like a leech to his heart.</p><p>Other essays, papers and treaties were more optimistic, but in such a disturbing way that he had merely skimmed over their long demonstrations. Strong neuroleptic drugs were being developed to treat psychotic patients, and two professors from Oxford University argued that they would most likely prove revolutionary in the coming decade for all mental ailments, including homosexuality.</p><p>Strong neuroleptic drugs. Debilitating drugs.</p><p>Homosexuals, psychotics, hysterical women, pedophiles… they were all the same to those renowned scholars.</p><p>He thought of all the words he had heard ever since his childhood days, some of them even occasionally spilling from the Captain's mouth, he recalled with a pang.</p><p>Perverts, poofs, benders, puffs, nancies, sissies, fruits and fairies…</p><p>Queers. Freaks. Monsters.</p><p>
  <em>Monsters.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>People like him.</em>
</p><p>Controlled electrocution was suggested by a French scholar as a modern, radical means of reordering the brain, which he deemed necessary for such deeply-rooted disorders. Forced isolation and chemical castration were “the only options truly capable of ridding a tainted individual of that particular perversion” according to an Austrian psychiatrist who had proudly exposed the cases of several men on whom he claimed his treatment had worked. Frantically pacing around his small bedroom, Tintin remembered the few photographs he had seen. He remembered how he had been unable to look away from those faces for a long while. All had looked dead inside. He had gone on to read German papers for an hour, absorbing horrific conclusions of Nazi scientists with chilling fascination, and it was an act of self-harm that he had later been unable to explain to himself. <em>There is no cure</em> was the only hypothesis which he had retained in the end. Perhaps because it was easier that way. Lazier. More convenient in its tragic certainty.</p><p>There was simply nothing to do.</p><p>He went back to bed. He tossed and turned before lying perfectly still on his back, eyes fixed upon the dark gray ceiling above him. How many men were like him? How many women? Perhaps he should follow the Captain’s advice and get himself another dog after all. That would make that one kid happy, at least.</p><p>After Milou died, he had taken on the habit of putting a pillow onto the covers next to his legs where his beloved mutt used to sleep against him. He had stopped after a few months, deeming it childish and ridiculous. He grabbed his second pillow from under his head and put it back there, but he still couldn’t sleep.</p><p>It was more than a year ago now, but it still felt like yesterday. On the second of February 1937, he had woken up to find Milou right here, dead beside him. It had been like finally falling into the endless pit that had always been there, right under his feet. For all these years—sixteen of them—Milou had been the rope keeping him safe. Keeping him from falling. It had been cut without warning.</p><p>He was falling again now. Or had he ever stopped to? It was a queer thing to wonder.</p><p>
  <em>Queer…</em>
</p><p>And yet, he had not fallen then. Not really. Still staring at the ceiling, he recalled the quiet horror he had felt that morning. He had not cried out. He had not fainted. He had not wept—not right away, at least. Instead, he had just uttered a soft gasp. The ugly face of death had been too obvious on his faithful companion for him to feel the need to check. He had simply reached out for the old torn blanket the little white terrier had elected as his own so many years earlier and had gently covered him. Then, like a well-oiled automaton, he had gotten up, left his small bedroom, turned the radio on, and started his morning routine in his living room with the same gymnastics moves since 1925, eyes fixed on the bare opposite wall. His face had barely moved as tears had eventually begun to streak his cheeks. He had listened to the morning news, legs flexing in a relentless rhythm.</p><p>Up and down. Up and down.</p><p><em>Vertigo, tremors, labored breathing, chest pain, uncontrollable weeping,</em> he remembered listing out later that day to himself like a student studying a curious natural phenomenon.</p><p>Grief. It felt like grief, but he wasn’t mourning anyone now. Or was he mourning himself? It was absurd.</p><p>He ended up falling into an agitated sleep as the faint light of dawn started to lighten up his room through the curtains. He slept from 6:30 to 10:30, missing his appointment with the head of a prestigious French car company in the process and apologizing profusely over the telephone afterwards. He dreamt that he had yet again been captured and made prisoner, his hands tightly bound behind his back, his feet bound together as well, his mouth expertly gagged, making it increasingly hard to breathe through his clogged nose... A sensation of slowly getting the life squeezed out of him… <em>There’s no way out. Nothing. No ruse, no trick, no secret passage. Nobody there with me.</em> <em>Milou’s gone. </em><em>The Captain— Oh, my dear Captain… You’re gone too, aren’t you? You have been for a while now. I wasn’t sure before. I am now. But this is for the best… for the best…</em></p><p><em>I am alright</em>, he thought while making himself some coffee<em>. This is Belgium. It isn’t illegal here at all. The public shaming will be tough to digest, perhaps even suffocating at times, but it won’t kill me. Monsieur Henri will let me keep my job, I know it. I am far too valuable. And if he fires me, I will then become a freelance reporter. It will be easy. I shall continue to do what I do best: look for the truth. Observe, report, educate. Yes, I am a valuable citizen. I can help people. I can contribute to making the world a better place. I matter. I have food on the table and a roof over my head. I can take another dog. I will take another dog, yes, this is decided. I shall take good care of it, and it will help me keep my sanity, just like Milou. This is enough. This is enough! Who am I to say it isn’t when I have seen so many people stuck in far worse conditions than mine?</em></p><p>He had thought it quite easy to hide his condition. <em>All I have to do is to remain alone and, god forbid, never let it show, </em>he had told himself.<em> Act masculine enough, never mention your private life, politely let everyone know you don’t like it when they ask questions about it. </em>He had refused every single offer from the Captain to take permanent lodgings in the château—and God knows there had been many of them—, for keeping a respectable distance with his dear friend had been nothing short of vital.</p><p>Except when they had been caught up in some adventure, sticking together at all times; day and night… </p><p>Such blessed times…</p><p>Nostalgia and longing hit him hard. He leaned over the table and buried his face in his arms. His shoulders spasmed as he allowed himself to cry.</p><p>There hadn’t been any adventures for nearly a couple of years now. His greatest fear used to be the Captain finding out about his true feelings for him and losing him in the process. Now, it seemed like a natural step towards definitive solitude. It had to be done. They had already been drifting apart when he had seen him with a woman at his arm on a warm September morning. It had been quite a shock. He had nearly lost his mind that day, and, truth be told, he was still recovering from it now, months and months after the incident. Deep down, he was afraid he would never recover. They had spotted him before he could flee. The three of them had exchanged a few words before he had abruptly left. Her name was Éléonore de Chanterelle. A noble widow with piercing green eyes and a sharp wit. Part of him believed that the Captain had understood everything that day. Perhaps that was the reason why he didn’t invite him anymore unless for special events like Christmas. Then again, Tintin had decided never to go back to Moulinsart unless explicitly invited, and the Captain might have taken it the wrong way. Either way, it was for the best. He had been preparing himself for the day he would receive an invitation to their wedding. Playing the role of a happy best man was beyond his power. He had decided that he would write him a letter explaining everything then. Explaining why he couldn’t come to his wedding, and why their friendship had to stop.</p><p>He was ready.</p><p>He wasn’t.</p><p>He would never be.</p><p>Being hopelessly in love with one’s best friend was a lifelong torture he didn’t wish on his worst enemy.</p><p>He had to write that letter now. Before the rumor reached his ears.</p><p>He had known that day would come, of course he had. A young bachelor constantly absorbed in his work and living a quiet, lonely life did not arise suspicion, only admiration, but after many years of prolonged celibacy, people would naturally start to ask questions. He had been perfectly aware of that. But so soon? God, so soon… Why?</p><p>Earlier in his youth, he had considered priesthood, but his doubts concerning faith and religion as a whole would have rendered the entire endeavor dishonest, even deceitful, as would finding a woman to hide his secret in marriage. How could anyone lie like that to a woman? How could anyone <em>pretend to love?</em> No, he couldn’t. Immersing himself into political intrigue, history, geography, linguistics, ethnography, philosophy was a fine alternative. It fed his mind enough that it wouldn’t drift apart. Traveling the world helped a lot. Diving head first into danger almost felt like relief. Secretly, he wished for strong men to attack him and pin him down with all their weight.<em><br/></em></p><p><em>I truly am sick</em>.</p><p>The rumor would swiftly swell like the sea during a storm. He would not confirm nor deny it. He knew the Captain would not cut ties with him, of course he wouldn’t, but he would be shocked for sure. He could almost hear him already, his roaring voice spouting abuse at the disgusting phylloxera who had dared start such a filthy rumor about his dear friend. When the truth would dawn on him, as he would witness Tintin’s telling silence, he would be left speechless and extremely uneasy. Oh yes, Tintin could perfectly picture his face at that moment. He would then speak in a small voice. <em>‘You’re… this—this isn’t true now, is it, lad?’</em></p><p>He went back to bed at 11:30 in the morning despite all the coffee he had drunk.</p><p>
  <em>Make me strong. Please, God, make me strong. Give me dreams and let them be enough.</em>
</p><p>The thought of spending the rest of his life without ever experiencing requited love brought such fear in him that he had to violently rub his head to chase horrific thoughts away. He fell asleep minutes later and dreamt of a dark corridor, endless and empty, leading to nowhere but absolutely nothing.</p><p>It was pathetic, really. Utterly pathetic. He poured himself another cup of coffee at four o’clock in the afternoon. He was being weak, letting himself go like that, weeping into his pillow for hours like a helpless child. It was just a difficult time to go through. A brutal transition. The end of his acting career, he thought with a sad smile. It was a metamorphosis, and like Lamia’s, it was painful. Painful and beautiful. A poetic agony. A death and a birth. He swore to God that he would devote his entire life to helping others, to doing good. He would get better; hold his head high and keep his feet steady in the storm, as he had always done. There would be pride and joy in his shame and suffering. There would be meaning. He saw himself as an older man decades from now, still doing the same gymnastics moves every morning, still in his good old little flat, taking care of himself, taking care of his third, fourth, fifth dog, seeing himself lifting his hat at the youth of tomorrow like that kind old chap in the streets of Bruxelles, and it was a charming thought.</p><p>Alone.</p><p>Up and down and up and down and up and down.</p><p>After finishing the short letter to his dear Captain, he forced himself to smile, willing the candid good spirits that had always been his back into his life.</p><p>He would be alright. He had to be.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Lucky Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Archibald Haddock was a lucky man—a filthy rich, outrageously fortunate man—, and every waking hour spent in the grand estate of his lavish seventeenth-century château, he would make sure to remind himself of that fact.</p><p>Spring was by far his favourite season. He would awake at dawn to the ever-changing songs of blackbirds and stay in bed for hours, snoozing in his soft sheets, at peace, and when he would finally open his old, sluggish eyes, they were met by the comfortable sight of his large bedroom dimly lit by the morning sun glowing through thick burgundy curtains. His tired gaze would run along their minutely embroidered friezes—grapevine intertwined with ivy—and he would embrace his pillow tighter for another round of soothing sleep, sighing into its warmth. Even after several years now as the proud owner of this jewel of a place, he still couldn’t quite believe his own luck. <em>This</em> was <em>home</em>?</p><p>
  <em>You prosperous profiteer… You pettifogger pirate… Look at where you live! </em>
</p><p>This particular morning was no different. The sounds of nature were blissfully bucolic. Except he had an itch behind one of his knees… and another on his calf. <em>Mosquito bites? So soon?!</em> <em>Blistering blue barnacles… </em>He had always been a favourite target of the flying fiends, no matter how much lemon balm he slathered all over his skin. But under the sheets? Under his <em>night clothes</em>? How in blistering hell had the bloodsuckers been able to sting him down there? <em>That</em> was why he loathed summer, and summer seemed right around the corner already, complete with its swarms of bugs and scorching sun, and it was only the first week of June, <em>tonnerre de Brest!</em> He would have to ask Nestor to buy more of that vile vaporizing chemical…</p><p>
  <em>No. Stop. Stop complaining, you lucky old fool! </em>
</p><p>His eighteenth-century Normandy clock began to chime from down the hall beyond his closed door.</p><p>
  <em>What time is it… Oh, really? A quarter to nine? Why, that’s ideal! I was certain I’d slept in much longer than that! Excellent. </em>
</p><p>He stretched both his arms with a dramatic yawn, got up, stood on tiptoes with hands in the air to stretch the rest of his body, drew his beloved curtains, turned the sculpted handle of the long window with a slight creak, pulled it open, then, finally, opened the varnished shutters, letting in a delicious soft breeze. He squinted and smiled at the splendid day suddenly spread out before him.</p><p>The verdurous scents of Moulinsart were elysian. Humus and moss still moist from the dew reached his experienced nose first. The smell had the woody undertones of the leaves and barks of ancient trees, not unlike good old whiskey and a few expensive Bourgogne and Bordeaux millésimes. He reminded himself to ask Nestor to order more of those 1927 Gevrey-Chambertin. Éléonore would be pleased. Chestnut, horse chestnut, beech and fir trees… He breathed in deeply, imagining the salty tang of the sea instead. Then came the subtle, warm smell of hay left to dry in the sun, brought in from the nearby stables by the light wind. He leaned over the edge and closed his eyes to get more of it, only to catch a whiff of the lovely fragrances of Tryphon’s roses and lilies of the valley instead. He straightened up, gave a content sigh and scratched his thick black beard with a smile, which turned into a grimace as he noticed another mosquito bite on the side of his neck.</p><p>And once you notice a mosquito bite, you cannot <em>unnotice</em> it. <em>Vampires… </em>He scratched and scratched and scratched, almost drawing blood, but then abruptly stopped, stretching again with a loud grunt thick with wrath.</p><p>His old bones couldn’t wait to take their morning walk. Perhaps to the nearest village and its decent enough bakery. Perhaps to the stables. He might spot another deer deeper in the woods if he went for a ride with his horse.</p><p>
  <em>‘But first, gymnastics, Captain!’</em>
</p><p>He grumbled.</p><p>
  <em>‘I can assure you… that there is no… better habit… than gymnastics… to start the day… in a good mood!’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, I know… </em>
</p><p>He took a few steps towards the very centre of his room, took a few deep breaths, and then began the ritual; laughable yoga moves to warm up, then squats, then push-ups. He was soon panting, his efforts punctuated with more annoyed grunts. Such cumbersome physical exercise had become part of his morning routine almost a year earlier, and now that his old carcass was finally going to get married, he made it last even longer, occasionally even going for an hour-long session, always on an empty stomach.</p><p>
  <em>‘That’s it, Captain! Just like that! You’re doing wonderfully!’</em>
</p><p>Of course, Tintin had never told him that, simply because he had always refused to join him, unwilling to lower himself to that level and much preferring to merely observe his young friend from the corner of his eye whenever the opportunity presented itself. How strange then to be able to imagine his voice so clearly... Perhaps his brain had somehow retrieved those words from some distant memory. How many times had he laughed at the boy for praising the “spiritual balance” that such exercise would supposedly bring him? He understood now. Oh yes, <em>now </em>he did.</p><p>How ironic.</p><p>Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.</p><p>In the end, it always made him feel better. Body and mind. It relieved some of the stress from which he suffered on a daily basis, and he felt stronger, healthier, and almost as brimming with life as his younger beardless self aboard the old Aréthuse so many years earlier—before he had started to sink his sorrows in whiskey; before he had acquired his sullen nature in the process. And it felt right. Symbolical. Even perhaps a little mystical. Yes, it was a ritual, in every sense of the word. But he scoffed at himself for thinking that.</p><p>His mind couldn’t fathom the fact that he was about to marry. One more month, and he still hadn’t invited him. Not that there would be any big ceremony at all, but still.</p><p>‘Fuck!’ he puffed, his body almost reaching its limits.</p><p>He cursed even more frequently now. When he was alone, which was most of his time, the expletives occasionally reverted back to their older, cruder nature—from his days as a Quartier-Maître, then as a Lieutenant. From his life long before Tintin. His brain would then conjure up either the image of his mother smacking him on the head with a rolled-up newspaper, or Tintin’s frowning, disapproving face. He didn’t know what part of his life felt more foreign now.</p><p>‘Fuckin’ ‘ell!’ he let out after his final push-up.</p><p>Today was too bright a day for melancholy. He strode to his bathroom humming some Mozart, opened a silver tap, and as his bathtub loudly filled up with steaming water, he began to inspect himself in the mirror, still humming. He picked up small scissors and began to slightly trim his beard as he did every week. Suddenly, he froze and stared at his own wide eyes as his humming unconsciously switched to Faust’s <em>air des bijoux</em>. After the initial second of horror, he burst out laughing. Soon, there would be no more rumors, no more gossip, no more of those laughable Paris Flash articles! Just peace and quiet. And a friend. A <em>woman</em>. Blistering hell, if someone had told him that only a year ago, he wouldn’t have believed them for a second. He quickly removed his night clothes, hissed when he entered the hot water, then began whistling some popular song by Charles Trenet while soaping himself.</p><p>
  <em>‘Que reste-t-il de nos amours?*’ [*What remains of our loves?]<br/></em>
</p><p>He thought of the little local chapel which was still under restoration thanks to one of his many generous donations. It was a Gothic jewel from the thirteenth century in a small nearby village called Silly. His English side snickered every single time he heard that name, and he chuckled at the memory of the plump little mayor solemnly standing as tall as he could to officially decorate him with the medal of Silly in the presence of a dozen villagers. Éléonore had loved the little anecdote, and had declared it the perfect place to marry. And so they would, surrounded by close friends and family only, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t picture Tintin among them.</p><p>He couldn’t bear the thought.</p><p>
  <em>‘Que reste-t-il de ces beaux jours?*’ [*What of those fine days of yore?]<br/></em>
</p><p>After his bath, he looked at his own naked body for a long moment in the full-length mirror of his bedroom. Not bad for an old chap going on fifty. Not bad at all.</p><p>His sex was erect. A sad sight. He had managed to ignore it until then. He frowned at it, wondering how women could be anything but scared upon such a sight. He had never gone to bed with anyone in his life, and had made peace with the fact that he never would a long time ago, before this miraculous marriage had brought well-buried fear and pain back to the surface. There was no way he wouldn’t hurt her if she ever wanted him to penetrate her. He shivered at the thought. Fortunately, there was little chance, for she <em>knew</em>. How exactly she had known, he didn’t know; the only thing he knew was that this was one of the reasons why she had been drawn to him in the first place. They had never discussed the dreadfully taboo subject directly, and he felt that she was respectfully waiting for him to breach it first.</p><p>Their arrangement was heaven-sent.</p><p>Still, in spite of it, he wanted to look good for her. Just in case. For what if she fancied trying it someday after all? What if they had to share a bed in some hotel, to keep up appearances, and it simply happened? What if they just wanted to pretend, to get a taste of what love felt like, both thinking of someone else, both fully aware of it… They could give each other that carnal illusion. Deep now, he knew that he wanted to ask her. Not to engage in what normal married couples did, no; but the mere prospect of being able to hold someone or be held in bed made him want to weep. If she could offer him that precious gift… And yes, if she could touch him, touch him there, at least a little... God… He was certain he would weep if it ever happened. He held himself straight, his shoulders broad, his stomach flat. Yes, it was only proper to make sure not to look like an old sack of cod for one’s future wife.</p><p>Especially her. Éléonore Haddock. He mouthed her future name with fondness. The only other person who had become this close to him that quickly had been the boy... He fought with his own mind then, to keep it from drifting towards dangerous waters. As usual, he lost control of his own ship, just like in his recurring nightmare. He went back to the bathroom to get rid of the problem in record time. What if Éléonore could cure him for once and for all of those devilish thoughts?</p><p><em>Éléonore Haddock… Éléonore Haddock… </em>She was unhoped-for. A childless and fiercely independent forty-two-year-old widow, Éléonore de Chanterelle could boast of a wealth double his, but instead of lathering herself in it, she lived quite simply, enjoying literature, good wine and quiet walks more than anything else. She had made it perfectly clear from the start that she would never love any man beside her deceased husband. Her habit of speaking quite bluntly but briefly about intimate matters—<em>‘to get things out of the way’</em>, as she put it—was a true breath of fresh air.</p><p>They had met in Bruxelles in April 1937, at a very formal grand gala charity ball full of boasting multi-millionaire tycoons and uptight aristocrats. Her first words to him had resulted in a bark of laughter that had made a poor valet drop a few glasses of champagne onto the sumptuous mosaic floor of the reception room. <em>‘Listen, dear, if you seek to seduce a gal tonight, I suggest diverting your efforts to that red soufflé over there. I’m sure you’ll be quite successful.’</em> He had followed her gaze, stunned, confused, and already quite tipsy. The soufflé had turned out to be the very haughty Mademoiselle de Rincourt in a ridiculously large dress. <em>What a delightful woman</em>, he had thought. After having assured her that he had no interest in seeking a wife <em>at all</em>, they had spent a wonderful evening complaining, laughing and exchanging more sarcastic jokes targeting the ‘<em>beautiful people’</em> attending the event. The more she had spoken, the more he had enjoyed her company, which in itself was an extraordinary feat for a bloody woman. Although it had now been more than a year ago, he still remembered some of her words from that night. <em>‘</em></p><p>
  <em>Thank God for your company, dear. I would’ve drowned myself in that fountain had you not showed up. Cheers!’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘God is this arduous… Oh, how I long for my own bed, a good book and a glass of gin...’</em>
</p><p><em>‘Aren’t you aware that full beards are old-fashioned now? Look at that marquis over there, with his tiny little fascist whiskers. Those are all the rage now.</em> <em>Ha! I can’t wait till Hitler gets his arse kicked and they all run in droves to their bathrooms to shave.’</em></p><p>She was a somber beauty, with fair skin and jet-black hair. Her light green eyes always seemed tired, already marked by age and most likely sleepless nights as they were, but they constantly sparkled with intelligence. She was quite petite, and he had had to bend his knees in order to catch some of her words above the loud chatter and the quartet playing quite close to them. He had much later learnt that some called her ‘the Snake’, but he had instantly noticed how most people appeared to carefully avoid her, merely greeting her with a tinge of fear and respect in their eyes, and this is what had prompted him to walk up to her in the first place. He had been intrigued, and to this day, he still was. He had enquired about her as soon as she had left him with a purposefully cheesy bow and a genuine smile. He had bowed and smiled back, before sneaking into the kitchens and initiating small talk with the valets and maids. She was considered as an unattainable widow who systematically rejected anyone’s company, men and women alike. Her evening spent with Captain Haddock had not therefore gone unnoticed. An old cynical butler had called her a cold and withered beauty whose mind was far too sharp for a woman, which had much pleased him, for he had personally found her to be anything but cold, quite beautiful and delightfully witty. According to one of the kitchen maids, her heart had been permanently damaged by her husband’s death and two stillborn children before that, and since then, she had infamously humiliated dozens of confident suitors during similar events. He had internally laughed at that, imagining the narcissistic dandies being rejected through one of her scathing quips. Some men had indeed seemed genuinely scared of her that night. He was himself hardly ever approached by most of the local gentry, for they viewed him as an insufferable nouveau-riche brute; gauche and hot-tempered to the extreme. In a nutshell, they were the black sheep in a sea of self-congratulating conformists. Their friendship had grown in no time.</p><p>They had exchanged a few hilarious letters. He had invited her to Moulinsart. He had offered her his arm as soon as she had got out of the car, and they had gone for a long walk, chatting, laughing and letting themselves bask in a new and peculiar platonic comfort. Her rude and biting portraits of proud marquis and counts always rendered him red with liberating laughter. She held her alcohol pretty well, he had soon realized, even with Loch Lomond, and perhaps even better than him, which was really saying something.</p><p>Yes, they were a perfect match.</p><p>He couldn’t truly figure out whether what he felt towards her now was love. If it was, it was blissfully devoid of lust, like the kind of love one must feel for a sister.</p><p>He had driven to France several times in his dashing convertible and visited her in her own little château between Blois and Tours, which was where they had had their fateful conversation in mid-October. They had been strolling along her endless botanical park, complaining about the countless proposals and shameless remarks they were both afflicted with on a monthly, even sometimes weekly basis.</p><p>‘Has it occurred to you that such pestering would cease in an instant if we simply married each other?’ He had stopped in his tracks and she with him, then, slowly, had turned and stared at her as if she had just transformed into a small llama. ‘Why, think about it, dear. The only thing we both aspire to is tranquility, isn’t it? You told me so yourself. Do you think those insatiable blabbermouths who are constantly querying after our prolonged celibacy will stop any time soon? It clearly irritates you to no end, just as it irritates me. I say we shut them up for good with a piece of paper.' He had been unable to talk. And so, she had continued with an amused smirk. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I don’t intend to… pursue the private and domestic upheaval which normally comes with marriage… although I admit to being quite fond of your company, Archibald.’ He had still been speechless. Her hat had almost been the same shade of orange as the leaves right behind her. ‘We could live together while still maintaining our beloved freedom, each in our own quarters’, she had then quickly added, for the first time looking embarrassed. ‘Listen dear… I was told a while ago that you were…' She had stopped then, hesitating, and had taken a deep breath before continuing her baffling proposal. 'I was told you were never seen to show any interest in women, and that was when I started enquiring about you, not that I didn’t already know who you were, because who doesn’t at this point… Anyway, your undeniable bravery, your loyalty, and, yes, your troubled reputation, everything about you sparked my interest, and it made me want to meet you. Weeks before the gala. And then, well... What I’d suspected about you was more or less confirmed by none other than yourself. Are you alright, my dear? Could you please not faint on me, for I’d be reduced to a pitiful heap of wool and boots if you do, given your stature and mine.’ At that point, he had managed to grunt. ‘Listen, you don’t want a wife and I don’t want a husband. Why, that makes you the perfect husband for me dear, and I, the perfect wife for you.’ After another long stretch of silence, she had simply said, gently patting his arm: ‘Well, then… why don’t we go back for a nice little glass of Scotch? With no ice this time, I promise.’</p><p>He had not slept at all that night in that lovely guestroom of hers, spending hours pacing and pondering, completely sober, for he had feared alcohol would cloud his judgement and make him say things he shouldn’t. As soon as she had appeared in the breakfast room the following morning, already fully dressed and more beautiful than ever, he had almost shouted his ‘yes!’ at her. She had stilled, then slowly smiled, delighted.</p><p>And that had been it.</p><p>He was to have a wife. <em>Him. </em></p><p>He didn’t think about Tintin much that morning. He had breakfast in the dining room with the French windows opened to the yard in full blossom, occasional butterflies entering with the sunlight, no doubt attracted by his toasts covered in cherry-tree honey. He rarely ate breakfast with Tryphon these days, the old scientist preferring to begin work in his laboratory quite early in the morning, and so he idly chatted with Nestor instead before enjoying his own company in his beautiful property. He loved to wander about the myriad of empty rooms and corridors of Moulinsart. Most of them were useless now—the music room, the birth chamber, the nursery, the arms room and so many others. He loved the quiet atmosphere, the sound of his own feet on the ancient wooden floor which creaked with each step with a faint resonance, the way his own coughs and grunts were amplified within the large deserted spaces... The smells too: old wood, old varnish and old books; charming mould—that distinct smell of a long-lost past. He wondered whether filthy rich men and women had ever died of pure boredom within these walls. Probably. Women, most likely.</p><p>He took his morning walk, finding himself willingly navigating on the bittersweet waters of nostalgia under the sunny canopy of his forest, forgotten sensations from childhood flowing to the surface. He considered going rabbit hunting again, but those devilish creatures with their cute little furry mugs be damned, he couldn’t shoot them, just like that deer the first time he had gone hunting on horseback with that clown of a count and his perfidious little crew of pedant crows looking him down with their chins up and waiting for him to ridicule himself at every turn. He had been physically unable to kill that beautiful beast and it had made all those elegant gentlemen laugh very loudly, but not as loud as when he had fallen from his horse face first into the mud. And so he hunted alone now, avoiding human company like the plague. His land was big enough to keep him busy for a couple of hours at least, and with nobody there to judge his sentimental streak, he was free to squeal in delight whenever he spotted a boarlet; masculinity be damned!</p><p>He would occasionally weep when he was absolutely positive there was nobody a mile around. Long and deep cathartic fits of hot tears made him feel better; they helped him cope, and they were part of the poetic tableau his mind had painted of his life. But that morning, he didn't weep. He loitered in the woods, catching squirrels hopping about and running along trunks, admiring couples of birds picking up twigs to build their little nests in secret places above his head. He tripped on thick roots, then onto a rabbit hole, and his curses made hidden little creatures scurry away in the nearby bushes. Out of habit, he pictured Tintin’s discreet smile at his clumsiness. It didn't bother him, and even made him smile a little. He was beginning to heal, he thought, slowly but surely. The second time he tripped, his mouth let out a plethora of insults directed at the furry little pests spreading like fungus all over his land. They ought to be properly exterminated once and for all! They made for great stew with ceps and Sancerre.</p><p>‘Archibald! Archibald! Where are you? <em>Archibald!’</em></p><p>He smiled despite the clear distress in his old friend’s voice. He was used to Tryphon's eccentricities. ‘Here!’ he shouted, even though he knew Tryphon to be as deaf as a tomb.</p><p>‘Look!’ the little scientist spat, breathless, once he had finally run up to him onto the narrow trail. By God, he looked furious. He was brandishing a sheet of paper, his hand quivering with outrage. A letter. ‘Look! Look at that! Can you believe this man? An old <em>colleague</em> of mine! How <em>dare</em> he?’ Archibald grabbed the paper with very little concern, but his nerves spiked up as soon as Tryphon uttered his next words. ‘To imply that such vile accusations against our dear friend must be true! Grotesque!’</p><p>‘What? What are you talking about?’</p><p>‘<em>Notre ami Tintin, un déviant? </em>I swear to God, he shall never forget my reply to his <em>offer</em>!’</p><p>He initially thought his twisted brain had made him hear the words. But then, Tryphon continued to speak, and his own eyes dropped to the letter in his hands. He instantly spotted three words: Tintin’s real name first, words that he so very seldom saw, and then <em>that </em>word, that one word which froze his very blood. He didn't read any further. From that point on and for about half an hour, he genuinely felt outside of his own body, as if this were a dream or a scene from a play. He heard every word Tryphon said to him but didn’t hear them at all at the same time. His heart began to hammer. He shivered all over. He felt faint but managed to walk back to the castle, all the while seeing Tintin’s name before him as one sees black spots after staring at too bright a light for too long, Tryphon still raging beside him, oblivious to the deep shock his friend was currently undergoing or completely misreading it. Archibald sat in his elected armchair, and as soon as Nestor saw him, the faithful butler understood something was alarmingly wrong. Eventually, with chilling calm, his master asked him to fetch the letter he must have dropped at one point and then proceeded to read it in its entirety.</p><p>It was from a renowned psychiatrist, Dr. Vernoux, one of Tryphon’s old friends whom he had invited twice to Moulinsart in the past few years. Archibald remembered him very well. He was a lanky man in his sixties, with immaculate white hair and little round glasses. A friend of Carl Jung’s, Freud’s famous disciple, he was a kind-hearted, soft-spoken man. He had written to Tryphon as soon as he had heard the quote-unquote <em>"rumeur troublante" </em>concerning Tintin. He wanted to help, offering his expertise in sexual deviance, free of charge. He wanted to <em>treat Tintin</em>, to treat his <em>“troubles homosexuels” </em>while remaining discreet, and he trusted Tryphon to talk with the young reporter first, for he knew they were <em>close friends</em>. As for whether the rumour was actually true or not, <em>there is no smoke without fire,</em> he had simply written.<em><br/></em></p><p>The rumour had been <em>all over Bruxelles</em> for a fortnight.</p><p>
  <em>A fortnight.</em>
</p><p><em>Close friends…</em> He looked at the two words for a long moment, as if in a trance. Then, almost hurting himself with the violence of the movement, he sprung up from his seat and rushed to the telephone. When the female operator’s voice reached his ear however, he was utterly unable to give her Tintin’s number. What on earth was he going to tell him? <em>Good morning, lad! How d'you do? Listen, I've heard a rumour saying you're sexually attracted to men, is that true? Because I am too! Isn't it funny? I mean, what are the odds?'<br/></em></p><p>He hung up, all but slamming the receiver back into its holder, before almost instantly grabbing it again, panting, Tryphon’s and Nestor’s voices both very loud and distant in his ears.</p><p>‘Donnez-moi la France. Le 107 dans le Loire-et-Cher.’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. An Unexpected Turn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> ‘Can you come?’ </em>
</p><p>Those were the only three words he had been able to utter over the telephone. By chance, she had been visiting her great-aunt in Lille. She jumped into a taxi right away. His deep voice, usually so rich and powerful, had sounded weak, almost broken. Somehow, her mind had instantly gone to his young journalist friend, and during her five-hour ride, she tried to imagine any other incident that could have reduced her sarcastic fiancé to such a vulnerable state, to no avail; her gut was telling her something terrible had happened to Tintin.</p><p>Were she put on the spot and asked how she knew for certain that he was in love with the young man, she would have been unable to formulate any conclusive answer. She just knew. It had little to do with the rumours, and a lot with how the old sailor wore his heart on his sleeve at all times, no matter how much effort he put into covering it. She couldn’t remember any specific conversation nor any particular reaction that had led her to abandon any remnants of doubt. There had been a plethora of signs, the most eloquent of which being his furtive answers and pregnant silence whenever she mentioned his old friend. She would occasionally question him about an artefact or a book she found in his home, knowing all too well where it must have come from, and a few times he had forgotten whatever ill had befallen their friendship, and had begun answering her with fond enthusiasm before sinking back into quiet melancholy.</p><p>What had happened between the two men? Had they really been lovers for years, as that English Duke had suggested to her? Had Tintin abruptly ended it? Or had it been unrequited love from the start? Had Archibald’s infatuation been discovered and thus irrevocably broken their close bond? Had it not been for a chance encounter the previous year, she would have placed a bet on the latter hypothesis. Her eyes lingering on the fleeting fields behind the automobile window, she recalled the scene from so many months ago. She had understood then, piecing together parts of a hidden puzzle which, although still largely incomplete, revealed an even sadder truth. </p><p>Archibald and she had been slowly walking back to Moulinsart from an early morning stroll to the nearby village, both of them still high from the little show they had put on for the local people. Who would have known how fun it was to play the fresh lovey-dovey couple with the old sailor as an acting partner? He had even plucked a rose poking out of the fence of a little village house and ceremoniously handed it to her before a group of old shrews, making them gawk at the surreal sight and struggling not to break character in front of them. Their subsequent fit of laughter had lasted quite a while, and they had still been recovering from it when they had spotted a distant figure walking towards the gates of the castle. As soon as she had recognized the famous boy reporter, to her genuine surprise, a sort of tingly excitement had washed over her, a queer feeling probably akin to what made those brainless lasses swoon before a popular movie star, and her laughter had turned into a high-pitched cackle of surprise. Here was the <em> clou du spectacle </em>! Archibald had instantly tensed, his low chuckles dying on the spot.</p><p><em> Well </em> , she had thought, regaining her solemnity, <em> let us meet the famous Tintin, and, hopefully, finally complete our puzzle. </em></p><p>Since he had been coming on foot from the eastward road leading up to the castle, they had had to squint to see his small silhouette haloed by the lovely rising sun of late September, and thus bathed in blinding gold, his trademark tuft of Venitian blond hair had been positively glowing. They had met right in front of the gates, with him reaching them first and waiting for them with a bright smile, and the steady rhythm of Archibald’s steps had faltered as the number of steps separating them had dwindled. Hints and gossip were one thing, but to witness firsthand the effect Tintin had on him was another. </p><p>
  <em> ‘My dear Captain! I am terribly sorry, I was unaware you had company.’ </em>
</p><p>Tintin had had no idea who she was. Archibald had never mentioned her. The latter had managed to keep his voice steady, introducing her while putting his right hand above her own still firmly locked under his left arm, as if to say: <em> I am with a woman now, see? </em> A small conversation had followed, about herself, about Tintin’s upcoming journey to Tahiti, about the innovative design of France’s brand new Dunkerque battleship. It had not lasted more than a few minutes, but it had been enough for her mind to gather some precious missing pieces.</p><p>Up close, he was devastatingly handsome, although the first word that had come to her mind had been the word <em> pretty</em>, for he was blessed with beauty one normally associates with girls: his hazel eyes were crowned with long and thick lashes; freckles dotted his rosy cheeks and small, pointy nose; his lips attracted the gaze; a little too plump, a little too pink, a little too dry, one could not help but look down at them while he talked; his hands, occasionally leaving the pockets of his long beige coat to accompany his easy-going speech, were small, thin and graceful. Yes, Tintin was a feminine man, and yet, at the same time, he did retain an aura, a presence which society identified as clearly masculine. His manner of speaking, the way he held himself, his overall bearing indicated how steadfast, how level-headed, how reliable he was. He exuded a sort of calm charisma and self-control she had never seen in anybody else. In a room full of people, she could bet that he had no trouble both staying in the background and gaining everybody’s attention in an instant. His pleasant voice, that of a tender tenor, was higher than Archibald’s and what most people imagined a typically virile voice to sound like, but it was quite manly nonetheless. His tone was confident, his enunciation, sober. His French was flawless, assertive, pure, but without any unnecessary embellishments. He did look quite young still, but unlike most people, she had noticed the faint creases already forming between his eyebrows, the sharpness of his neatly shaved jaw which was nonexistent in the most widely-spread pictures of him, the depth of his charming dimples whenever he smiled, but it was his eyes that truly gave him away; from them transpired great wisdom and kindness, but also some fatigue, some sense of weariness behind a veil of quiet happiness—his armour.</p><p>Yes, he did wear an armour. A thick one, an impressive one, one so efficient it was all but invisible, and for a moment she had almost been fooled, failing to spot any cracks. He had congratulated them, beaming at his old friend. Had he been relieved to see him with a woman? But then, as she had been trying her best not to scan him too obviously, his eyes had met hers, and although she had felt caught, she had sustained his gaze for a second—a fleeting look of shared intelligence and good-natured tact. And then he had suddenly changed. To this day, she still wondered what he had seen in her eyes then, for after that tiny moment, he had avoided her gaze altogether, before abruptly leaving with a lame excuse, an excuse so bland that she had forgotten the details of it; something to do with a forgotten appointment. He had come from Bruxelles to visit his dear friend, partially on foot, only to leave minutes later because of a “forgotten appointment”? On a Saturday no less? The possibility that he had wanted to simply leave the two lovebirds alone was too far-fetched, even if the way he had parted ways with them had somehow suggested it. No, something in the way he had suddenly avoided her gaze told her he had been lying, pretending, <em> acting </em> the whole time.</p><p>Seeing his friend with a woman at his arm had been too much.</p><p>And so, from then on, she had deduced Archibald’s feelings were in fact requited. Tintin was fleeing. Had their love never quite bloomed, both of them repressing  their inclination under the terrible pressure of society and religion? Had they gone too far one night, only to regret it the following morning? Were they completely oblivious to each other’s feelings? She remembered very carefully trying to make Archibald talk after Tintin’s abrupt departure, but he had barely spoken a word during the rest of the day, taking refuge in national and international newspapers.</p><p>As she entered Belgium, she prayed not to be handed the last missing pieces by some tragic event. What if Tintin had died before they could even confess their love to each other?</p><p>She pictured them meandering around the globe, such perfectly opposed halves united by their thirst for justice and adventure, staying in each other’s pockets for years, braving a thousand threats, facing death together, slowly falling in love against all odds, against common sense, terrified of their own feelings, of the other ever finding out...</p><p>Nestor was waiting for her at the gates, a bad sign in itself.</p><p>‘Oh Madame’, the flushed butler told her as she got out of her taxi. He looked sick with worry. ‘Monsieur has been pacing around the gardens for hours, eagerly waiting for your arrival.’</p><p>‘What happened, Nestor?’</p><p>The direct question, despite its simplicity, caused him to stutter.</p><p>‘I—I—I believe this is not for me to say, Madame.’</p><p><em> Oh, thank God Tintin’s not dead! </em> she instantly deduced.</p><p>‘Where is he?’</p><p>‘I believe he went this way, into the forest, but I am not cer—’</p><p>She was already off, having all but kicked her expensive shoes off her feet before the bewildered butler. She gripped the thin fabric of her summer dress to maintain it above her ankles and hurried through the lush English garden, hopping over large roots and high tuffs of grass with the ease and grace of someone accustomed to such extravagance. A strange blend of relief, worry and excitement was making her light-headed. What could be so private that even his trusted butler thought it inappropriate to tell her himself? What private matter could have upset him so? It <em> had </em> to be about love.</p><p>She found him after a good five minutes. At first glance, he appeared quite alright. He spotted her, gave her a little awkward wave, then began to slowly walk towards her. Yes, Tintin was not dead. As he drew closer however, she noticed a queer look of shock on his face. He was looking straight into her eyes, not once glancing away, alarmingly so, like a man burdened with the duty of having to announce some horrible news, and she braced herself, losing all of her certainties, hypotheses swirling in her head. He stopped walking a few steps away from her. She imitated him and respectfully waited, unable to look away from that haunting look in his eyes. He seemed utterly lost. He tried to speak, but no words came out. After a moment, she stepped forward, then gently took his arm.</p><p>‘Let’s have a walk, my dear.’</p><p>He let her guide him along a narrow trail, his breathing shallow. They walked in silence pressed together. When she lifted her chin to steal a glance at his imposing profile, she noticed the glistening streak of a tear along his cheek above his thick beard. He wiped his cheek with embarrassment. She quickly looked down. She waited, out of respect and decency, but after long minutes of him still unable to utter a word, concern and curiosity took the better of her.</p><p>‘Is it about your friend?’</p><p>She felt him slightly start. There was of course no doubt as to what friend she was talking about. He stopped right under a huge oak tree. He did not deny it. Again, he tried to speak but let out a sarcastic huff instead, with his eyes looking up at the leaves, as if to mock himself; they were glistening, threatening to spill again. It was a strangely attractive sight to see such an impressive man rendered so fragile by overwhelming emotion.</p><p>‘I love him’, he said at last in his hoarse voice. They both got chills from those three little words. She shuddered, having not expected to hear them so soon, so simply, so bluntly, or even to hear them at all, ever, indirect admission being much more common and infinitely easier. Yes, they were only three little words, words which could have meant something else entirely, but what they meant was clear as day, and in their world, one did not speak of this. Such words were dangerous. Such words could end lives. Having an open mind did not provide an easy escape. Unveiling that truth was a momentous event, and it was such a clear and open declaration of trust that she got tearful herself.</p><p>‘I know’, she replied, even if it was already obvious to him, and his blue eyes went down to meet hers. They stared at each other for a long moment, and their silent exchange was worth a thousand speeches. <em> ‘Why aren’t you disgusted?’</em>, his sad and confused eyes seemed to be asking her. <em> ‘Because you’re not disgusting. You’re my friend. It’s all right’ </em>, hers seemed to respond, sweet and comforting. She took his arm again and they resumed their walk.</p><p>‘How?’ he asked after a while, and it came out as a croak.</p><p>She didn’t need him to precise his question. He needed more than what little she had already given him. ‘Well… I knew how close you two were, and given—'</p><p>‘We weren’t. We never were.’</p><p>She went quiet for a long moment after that, letting the sad admission sink in. ‘Has… anything happened to him?’ she then carefully asked.</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>Silence. Again, words got stuck in his throat.</p><p>‘Don’t feel obliged to speak right now. It can wait.’</p><p>‘I’m sick’, he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. She stopped and faced him, having to take a step back to have a proper look at his face as she was more than a foot shorter than him. <em> Yes, </em> she thought to herself, <em> the puzzle is almost complete now. </em></p><p>‘No, you’re not. You’re unlucky.’</p><p>‘Unlucky?’</p><p>‘That’s right. You happened to fall in love with someone of your own gender. With all th—’</p><p>‘No’, he interrupted her, and all of a sudden, he couldn’t stop. ‘I didn’t simply <em> happen </em> to—No. No. There’s something wrong with me. Don’t pretend there isn’t. You know very well what it means, what it makes of me. I’ve known for decades, for decades and I still… I still… I didn’t... I <em> tainted </em> him. I don’t know how, I don’t know how, but I did it, I did it, I perverted him. Because this is no coincidence, how in blistering hell could it be a coincidence? Somehow… somehow… along those years... I must’ve done something… many things… overtime… I had an impact on… on…’ He was pacing, turning, spinning, holding his head and running his fingers into his hair, slamming his fist into an invisible table to mark his words, and she tried to stop his frenzy.</p><p>‘What have you heard—’</p><p>‘We were close!’, he spat, directly contradicting his earlier confession. She stared at him, holding her breath. ‘Too close... for too long... It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t healthy! And I was aware of it. I knew it. I knew it. And yet I didn’t, I couldn’t—I couldn’t bring myself to— I couldn’t put a stop to it. I couldn’t leave him.’ His voice faltered then, and he went on almost whispering. ‘I should’ve left him… I should’ve kept my distances years ago, long before he did. It was too late, too late, he tried to put a stop to this madness, and I thought… Blistering barnacles, this isn’t a coincidence!’</p><p>‘Archibald, what happened?’</p><p>‘This isn’t a coincidence’, he kept repeating.</p><p>‘Please.’</p><p>‘I don’t know', he inexplicably replied.</p><p>‘Archie…’ He threw a glance towards her then, never quite used to how she occasionally pronounced his first name in such a perfectly English way. ‘What happened?’</p><p>He gave another heavy sigh, then finally delivered some kind of answer. ‘There’s a rumour going around...’</p><p>‘About you two?’ she risked after a pause, restraining herself from telling him that that particular rumour had emerged more than three years ago in higher society.</p><p>‘No. Him only.’</p><p>She frowned at that, thinking hard. ‘Where is he right now?’ she asked after a moment.</p><p>‘I don’t know.’</p><p>‘You haven’t tried to telephone him?’</p><p>‘What? No.’</p><p>‘Why, you should reach out to him, make sure he’s alright!’</p><p>‘No. No, this is the last thing I should do.’</p><p>‘He might be needing your help!’</p><p>‘I—No. He made it quite clear that—no.’</p><p>‘Oh, so you spoke?’</p><p>‘No, but…’</p><p>‘But what? What did he make clear? When?’</p><p>‘I can’t explain it. I just know.’</p><p>‘Know what?’</p><p>‘That he wants me to stay away!’ he roared. </p><p>‘Did he tell those exact words to you?’</p><p>‘<em>Mille milliards de mille sabords! </em> I <em> know </em> it, it’s as simple as that! You women always need to complicate things!’</p><p>She stilled, offended. ‘Us women? <em>You men</em> are the ones making your lives much more complicated than they should be! Making yourselves miserable when all you need to do is speak to one another!'</p><p>‘Enough with your delirious assumptions!’</p><p>‘My delirious assumptions?’</p><p>‘Perfectly! Now leave me alone.’</p><p>‘Was he fired from Le Vingtième Siècle?’ He stopped in his tracks. Tintin’s newspaper was clearly leaning towards the right, and that had already led the young man to quite a few heated arguments with his editor-in-chief in the previous years. ‘My dear, you really should telephone him.’</p><p>‘I can’t… I can’t see him…’</p><p>‘Why not?’ Silence. ‘Let me get this straight…’ She spoke very softly then, careful not to brusque him, ‘you are saying that the love you feel isn’t one-sided?’</p><p>To her surprise, he seemed genuinely shocked at that, as if such a logical conclusion hadn’t even occurred to him. ‘No. No. Nonsense. I could be his father.’ </p><p>Bewildered at his blindness, she retorted: ‘My husband was twice my age.’</p><p>He eyed her with renewed shock, then erupted again. ‘Don’t! <em> Mille milliards to mille sabords de tonnerre de Brest! </em>I swear this is going to drive me barking mad! Just when I thought I was beginning to—Thundering hell, what have I done?’</p><p>‘What do you mean? You think you made him attracted to men? You think your “unnatural vice” twisted his innocent youth? Do you even hear yourself? You’re repeating Nazi propaganda!’</p><p>‘This isn’t a coincidence’, he repeated. ‘Nazi, Catholic, Neanderthal, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a coincidence.’</p><p>‘It isn’t a coincidence if you fell in love with each other? Well, that’s it! You fell in love! You’re not making any sense.’</p><p>‘<em>Tonnerre de Brest </em>, I’m gonna lose my bloody mind…’</p><p>‘You know what… if we do marry, that would be the perfect cover for you two to—’</p><p>‘Blistering blue barnacles! Don’t! Don’t you dare!’</p><p>‘Think...’</p><p>‘Don’t!’</p><p>‘...about it! You being married could—’</p><p>‘Don’t! Don’t give me <em>hope!’</em></p><p>She fell silent, and watched, hesitant, as he turned around and ran a tired hand across his face. ‘Tell me’, she pleaded again. ‘Tell me what happened with him. From the beginning.’</p><p>‘Nothing happened.’</p><p>‘But you fell in love, both of you, I know it…’</p><p>‘No, you don’t!’</p><p>‘Alright, I don’t, but don’t tell me the odds aren’t largely in your favour, dear.’</p><p>‘In my favour…’, he scoffed. He rubbed his beard aggressively before abruptly reaching into his linen jacket for a small satchel and his pipe, which he then began to clumsily stuff with tobacco with shaking fingers, dropping most of it on the ground. ‘Wanna know what happened? He refused my offer to live here with me. I never should’ve asked. I don’t know what came over me. And I didn’t ask once. I was insistent. I couldn’t reason myself. I thought…’ he paused, then let out a grunt of frustration. ‘I don’t know what I thought. All I know is that he changed afterwards. I think he saw right through me then… And then… and then, since he’s the kindest lad you’ll ever meet, he was… gentle in his manner of… well, he made it quite clear. He came by less often and—’ He paused, swallowing a lump in his throat. ‘He became more distant. Even more so than usual. Of course, I understood. It was bound to happen anyway. Only a matter of time…’</p><p>‘It doesn’t seem quite as clear to me. You’ve never actually spoken a word about any of this together, haven’t you?’</p><p>‘Of course not! One does not speak about such things!’</p><p>‘Why not?’</p><p>‘Oh, <em> please!’ </em></p><p>‘What do you have to lose? If what you’re saying is true and he doesn’t share your feelings, I’m sure he’ll be quite compassionate and—’</p><p>‘Stop it!’ he snapped, suddenly aggressive towards her. ‘I know what you want… And here I was, persuaded you were different than all those pesky hens…’</p><p>‘I beg your pardon?’ she exclaimed.</p><p>‘You desperately want something to be there when there isn’t! There’s nothing! <em> Nothing. </em> Oh yes, I know your kind… always romanticizing anything and everything for your own entertainment!’</p><p>‘And I know your kind! Who’d rather ruin-´</p><p>‘Enough!’ </p><p>‘Archie, what if he—’</p><p>‘I said <em>enough</em>!’ he bellowed, making birds fly away in distress. ‘And then what?’ he challenged her, his voice filled with heartbreaking sarcasm. ‘We live happily ever after?’</p><p>She studied his gaze before replying, unbreakable. ‘So you do think there’s a chance.’</p><p>Incredulous, he simply looked into her eyes for a moment as if she were mad, before replying in a solemn tone. ‘I’ll never do that to him. You hear me? <em>Never</em>.’</p><p>‘Do what to him? I don't understand.’</p><p>‘Yes, you do. You know <em>what</em>.’</p><p>‘I really don’t. Enlighten me.’</p><p>‘Thundering typhoons, you exhaust me, woman!’</p><p>‘You think you invented love between men?’ He began to stomp angrily away from her at that. ‘You think you’re the first?’ She called out, following him. ‘And what do you have to lose? If he loves you too, think about what you may have! I’ll cover you! And if he doesn’t, you won’t lose him twice, but you’ll at least have the comfort of certainty!’</p><p>‘I already have that!’ He snapped, not stopping.</p><p>‘Then why did he leave so suddenly last year?’</p><p>He froze. ‘What in blistering hell are you talking about?’, he then mumbled, his tone indicating he perfectly knew what she was talking about.</p><p>‘Last September. He came by to see you, only to leave a few minutes later. Didn’t you find this strange?’</p><p>‘He had an appointment’, he replied, still mumbling in his beard.</p><p>‘On a Saturday… And you hadn't told him about me. He-'</p><p>‘He must have someone.’</p><p>‘You don't know that. But even if he did, you-'</p><p>‘I—’ he began, emotion and something else she couldn't read preventing him from finishing whatever he was about to say. ‘Stop. Please stop.’</p><p>‘No, I won’t. Send him a telegram at least. Ask him if he’s alright.’</p><p>‘I can’t. I couldn’t bear it’, he said, much more quietly.</p><p>‘Couldn’t bear what?’ she prompted him on as gently as she could. He seemed close to tears now.</p><p>‘He still comes, you know?' He cleared his throat, trying hard not to break down. 'He came by for Tryphon’s birthday, last February. And something might come up. Something that may require my help. What if he decides to cut all ties? What if I never—' He stopped, struggling again. He then shook his head, slightly biting his lip. 'Couldn’t bear it... You... you don’t understand. I’d rather see him twice a year than never again.’</p><p>‘Archie... you’re not making any sense... You depict him as the kindest man on earth; why would he do that to you? After everything you’ve been through together? And didn’t you say you think he already knows? You’re contradicting yourself.’</p><p>‘I can’t speak about that to him. I can't. It’s indecent.’</p><p>‘What are those rumours about exactly? Why did they make you so upset? Do you want to know what I thought when I heard your voice over the telephone?’</p><p>‘I’m scared’, he suddenly confessed.</p><p>‘Of what?’</p><p>‘Losing him.’</p><p>‘For good…’ she understood then, thinking out loud.</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>‘But you could have him. For good.’</p><p>‘Can’t risk it...', he muttered.</p><p>‘Are those rumours about another man?’</p><p>The words seemed to cut into his heart. His eyes fell shut through the pain. ‘If they’re true, they must’ve started somewhere’, he eventually replied.</p><p>‘Have you considered the possibility that he may be in the same position as you are, seeing you as inaccessible? After all, he did see you with a woman at your arm. He might’ve heard about us long before our encounter too, thus explaining his distanciation from you.’</p><p>‘No. It started long before we met...’</p><p>‘When?’</p><p>‘I don’t know... maybe... back in ‘36... It got worse after Milou’s death.’</p><p>‘Milou?’</p><p>‘His dog. We buried him together not far away from here. Listen, I don’t know much for certain but I know one thing: I won’t do that to him.’</p><p>‘Again, I don’t know what you mean by that.’</p><p>‘That! <em>That.</em>’</p><p>‘I told you you could easily hide. Unless you’re talking about s—’</p><p>‘Don’t say it, godammit! I won’t <em>defile</em> him, you hear me? I can’t, I couldn’t. Never.’</p><p>‘Oh my dear… what if he wants you to?’</p><p>‘No. No. You… how can you—you’re talking about it as if… as if it were nothing! As if it were perfectly natural!’</p><p>‘About what, dear? Love?’</p><p>He huffed and puffed, once again agitated, as if the word itself was burning him. ‘Jesus Christ…’ he muttered, yet again surprising her.</p><p>‘My dear friend… if this is about—’</p><p>‘Yes! Yes, love! Are you happy? I’ve known him since he was a kid! I’ve watched him grow! I’m twenty-two bloody years older than him! And yes, he is a man! <em>A man!</em> Oh, it’s such a tiny little detail for you, isn’t it? Well, I don’t know from which planet you come, but on this one, this <em>isn't natural!'<br/></em></p><p>‘I don’t think love is, really.’</p><p>‘What?’</p><p>‘I mean… animals do have sex with their own parents…’</p><p>‘What in blistering hell are you talking about?’</p><p>‘I meant to say nature shouldn’t be a model.’</p><p>‘Huh! Tell that to the local priest!’</p><p>‘Ah, religion… is that what this is all about? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a religious man.’</p><p>‘I’m not. God knows I’m not… But I know he is, to some extent.’</p><p>‘Really?’</p><p>‘Yes. He used to be a Scout, and come Christmas time and Easter, he… well… I’ve seen him pray. Once.’</p><p>‘Once…’, she repeated. ‘He used to be a Scout, you’ve seen him pray once, and you’re—’</p><p>‘Oh for God’s sake, that’s the impression I gathered over many years! And no, we’ve never <em> talked </em> about it, but I know what I saw! He’s always been a private man, but he’s very much a Catholic, and yes, he does believe in God.’</p><p>‘He must be devastated, then. The rumours… How do you think he feels right now?’ He was quiet again, looking miserable. ‘Would you like me to call him for you? Again, just to make sure he’s alright.’</p><p>He didn’t answer her. Instead, he walked away, angrily chewing on his pipe. A dozen yards away however, he stopped, waiting for her, before resuming his strides way ahead of her. She let him go, understanding that this was his own peculiar way of accepting help: through aggressive resistance gradually turning into grumpy passivity. Once inside the castle, he sulked like a big child in his favourite armchair with a well-deserved glass of Loch Lomond while she attempted to reach the young man.</p><p>Tintin didn’t pick up; he was either not home or ignoring her call. Tryphon had left the castle in a hurry after receiving a telegram. Nestor was unable to tell them anything about the scientist’s sudden departure except that it had nothing to do with Tintin. They spent the rest of the afternoon playing chess and sipping whiskey, both of them ending up quite drunk. A little after six o’clock, Archibald stood up and staggered his way towards the telephone. His young friend still didn’t pick up.</p><p>‘Is this unusual? For him not to be home at that time?’</p><p>‘Nah. He could be out and about somewhere. Probably with a <em> friend.’ </em></p><p>‘We should try to reach his concierge. He lives in Bruxelles, right?’</p><p>‘Yup.’</p><p>‘Let me do it.’</p><p>It was her turn to lift herself off her seat, and she did so on her second attempt, swaying dangerously. Archibald let out a roar of laughter.</p><p>‘Looks like I’ve finally broken you!’</p><p>‘You wish!’ she snorted, grabbing a bookshelf for balance.</p><p>‘Haha! Careful there, my love!’</p><p>She blew him a kiss. She really should see an ophthalmologist, for her sight truly was getting worse. She managed nevertheless to reach the lobby and the wall where the telephone was hung, refusing Nestor’s help.</p><p>‘Hello? Hello, hello, hello, give me Tintin’s concierge… I beg your pardon? Oh, oh, right, let me see… Archie! What’s Tintin’s address?’</p><p>‘26 rue du Labrador!'</p><p>’26 rue du Labrador! I'm sorry? Oh, his number? Haha!'</p><p>'797 for the concierge!’</p><p>'727!'</p><p>'97! 797!'</p><p>'797! Yes, 97, I'm sorry. Thank you very much indeed, my dear.’</p><p>‘Hello?’ eventually came the high-pitched voice of Tintin's concierge.</p><p>‘Oh hello dear, Madame de Chanterelle speaking. I’m looking for Tintin on behalf of Archibald Haddock. Do you happen to know where he is? He’s not answering his telephone and we’re quite worried.’</p><p>‘Monsieur Tintin? Oh, but he left about two weeks ago!’</p><p>Stunned by the news, it took her a moment to come back to her senses. ‘Two weeks ago? You said two weeks?’</p><p>‘That’s right, Madame. I believe he went to Germany for work.’</p><p>‘To—to Germany? Do you happen to know more?’</p><p>‘I’m afraid not, Madame. Oh, wait, he did leave with a gentleman. Anatole, his name was, but I don’t know his last name. That’s all I know.’</p><p>‘Why, thank you very much indeed.’</p><p>She hung up too forcefully, feeling slightly disoriented. When she reached the main living room again, Archibald was back in his armchair, looking as white as a sheet. She walked over to the opposite armchair and flopped onto it with a bounce.</p><p>‘What else does she know?’ he asked through his drunken stupor, having clearly heard everything but the concierge’s words.</p><p>‘He left with a man named Alphonse. Or Anatole. Wait, it may have been Albert.’</p><p>When she looked at him again, his eyes were closed. ‘To Germany.’</p><p>‘To Germany’, she confirmed.</p><p>‘What’s his full name?’ he rumbled.</p><p>‘Oh, she didn’t know that.’</p><p>They didn’t exchange a single word after that. Clutching both armrests in a vice grip, he muttered a string of curses under his breath, reminding her of the distant thunder of an approaching storm, then abruptly stood up and headed towards the terrace and into the garden. He paced around the rosebushes, fuming, for thirty minutes, before skipping dinner and going straight to his room.</p><p>She was startled awake by the ancient clock of the second floor striking eleven, followed by the loud hoot of an owl in a tree before her open window. A minute later, a series of urgent raps at her door made her start. She got up from her large bed, sliding her feet into her slippers, and went to open her door only to see her friend almost flying into her room in his loose green nightclothes.</p><p>‘Germany! <em> Germany! </em> What was he <em> thinking? </em> And he’s been there for two weeks?<em> Two weeks!</em> And no word from him! Nothing! Ah, the bird-brained bandicoot! He could’ve been arrested or worse! Travelling to that madhouse with a male lover, what was he thinking? Diving straight into the devil’s mouth, ah, of course! Of course he did, the nitwit! He never could resist a challenge, couldn’t he? Always throwing himself head first into the worst situations! Numbskull! Nyctalop! Paying a visit to those psychotic sycophants who imprison communists, Jews, homophiles, bohemians, originals, and who else? Nuns, clowns, chimpanzees, Martians, their own in-laws, who knows what’s happening in that loony bin of a country? I’m telling you, Hitler isn’t reinforcing his navy to play touché-coulé! He’s gonna lose it for good and in no time we’ll have another Great War on our arses, only with aviation, submarines and radar! This is pure madness, that’s what it is! I don’t care what those birdbrained journalists say, I’m telling you, this is gonna happen again! Men don’t ever learn... And that ginger sea gherkin is certainly no exception! It’s a madhouse! A madhouse everywhere!’</p><p>‘Archie…’</p><p>‘I have to go. Go and find him.’</p><p>‘Archie, calm down.’</p><p>‘I'm gonna go pack up.’</p><p>‘Archie…’</p><p>‘Berlin. That’s where he must’ve gone.’</p><p>‘Archie, you have no idea where he is. We’ll call <em> Le Vingtième Siècle </em> tomorrow morning.’ For the first time since his outburst he seemed to notice her. ‘She did say he went there for work, didn’t she? They’ll probably have more information.’</p><p>They didn’t. They weren’t even aware of his trip to Germany. The woman’s voice was cold over the telephone. She explained how they had also tried to reach him, in vain. They had eventually sent him two telegrams. The first one, from ten days earlier, had been an ultimatum; they had given their most valuable reporter three days to deny the "filthy rumours". Then, not having received any news from him, they had unceremoniously fired him in the second one, for his “deviant lifestyle” which was “incompatible with their values” and constituted a threat to their “honorable reputation as a Catholic newspaper”. That same morning, <em> Le Vingtième Siècle </em> arrived with the mail as it did every day, Nestor putting it on the breakfast table reluctantly, bracing himself for their reaction. On the frontpage was a long editorial defending Hitler’s radical actions against “unnatural” literature and individuals.</p><p>She couldn't stop him, couldn't reason him. And so she followed him, soon finding herself at the German border in the passenger seat of his red convertible.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Anatole (part one)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dear readers,<br/>As I have very little time to write, I have decided to publish chapters chunk by chunk, before eventually editing the whole thing together so that it looks more like a regular novel. It may take a long while. Thanks for reading anyway! And so, here's the first part of chapter 5. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That wretched key wouldn’t enter the lock, and so he had to let Éléonore do it. He stepped back and watched her, heart beating too fast, as she opened Tintin’s door on her first try. There was no smug look from her, however. No time for that.</p><p>‘Come on!’ she urged him on in a soft voice.</p><p>He was hating this. Loathing the idea, even. He had never done it, at least not to that extent, trampling upon his friend’s privacy like that, breaking into his personal space. It made him sick.</p><p>‘Archie! What are you waiting for? Come on!’</p><p>Reluctantly, he stepped forward, feeling an invisible line being torn open, <em>violated</em>. His feet felt strangely hot, his legs tingly up to his knees. She closed the door behind him and the sound of it made him shudder.</p><p>‘Okay, now where should we start? Archie? Oh <em>please! Now</em> you’re having second thoughts about this?’</p><p>‘You lied to her', he replied, refering to Tintin's concierge.</p><p>‘Why, yes! What would you have me do instead?’</p><p>‘Tell the truth.’</p><p>‘You’re joking?’</p><p>‘No.’</p><p>‘Then maybe <em>you</em> should’ve spoken to her, instead of staring at the floor! You’re the one who drove us here at full speed!'</p><p>'Your idea...'</p><p>'And <em>you’re</em> the one who knows her! And yet you made me improvise at the last minute!’</p><p>‘It was a bad idea...’ he muttered.</p><p>‘What?’ she whispered, disbelieving. ‘How could you—'</p><p>‘We shouldn’t be here.’</p><p>‘<em>Right.</em> We should be in Berlin hoping to bump into him. Now, come on!’, she vigorously whispered as she began to move around the living-room and kitchenette like a thief, scanning the place for any possible clues.</p><p>He remained stuck before the closed front door, his somber gaze gingerly looking around his friend's place. After a moment, she stopped her search to face him again, and her eyebrows went up, prompting him to say something, to <em>do</em> something.</p><p>‘For the last time, Archie, we drove all the way to Köln and back for <em>nothing!</em> We have nothing! No idea where to go, where to look! Berlin, why Berlin? You acted on a whim; he could be <em>anywhere!</em> <em>This</em> is our only chance of finding anything at all! Now get a grip and help me look around for— what? What is it?’</p><p>He was staring at something, frowning. She followed his gaze but saw nothing in particular, just a coffee table and an armchair.</p><p>‘Archie?’</p><p>‘He doesn’t smoke.’ She looked again. There was an ashtray on the table, with three cigarette butts in it. Some tense silence followed. ‘I shouldn’t be here’, he repeated, turning around to reach for the doorknob.</p><p>‘Wait! What if you’re right? What if he really is in danger?' His pale blue eyes went up at that, and he stared into space for a moment. 'Now that we’re here, let’s at least have a look around', she went on. 'I know how difficult it is for you, knowing…’</p><p>‘Why do you care so much?’ he interjected. Words died on her lips. She waited for him to walk out, but he didn’t. His eyes kept glancing back at the cigarette butts.</p><p>‘Listen, I understand. I know how difficult it is; you’re scared of what you may find here. But if you really do want to find him, this is the only way, at least I believe it is, and you seemed pretty certain of it as well only ten minutes ago. What changed? ’ He took a deep breath through his nose, then, after a pause, gave a low grunt of reluctant approval. ‘Alright’, she nodded to herself. ‘Let’s do this then. Alright?'</p><p>Weakly, he nodded.</p><p>They moved at wildly different paces; she with urgency and efficiency, he with cold caution and diffidence. It didn’t take her more than thirty seconds to find the letter. It had been left on the desk in Tintin’s small study. She called out his name in triumph and waited for him to burst into the room. Instead, he slowly appeared with the same reluctant look on his face. Beaming at him and excited, she handed the letter to him without a word. He looked down at the envelope bearing his name, but didn’t move.</p><p>‘I told you we had to come back.’ No response. ‘What? What is it? It’s for you!’</p><p>‘He didn’t post it.’</p><p>‘So what? It is for you!’</p><p>He stared at his name, at the elegant handwriting he could recognize out of a thousand, hesitated for a few more seconds, then, despite the little voice in his head screaming for him not to do it, he grabbed it, abruptly, gruffly, before unceremoniously tearing the envelope open with shaky fingers.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Anatole (part two)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Thursday, May 19</strong> </span>
</p><p>‘...amidst growing concern after German troops marched into Austria last month. DING. German pacifist and Nobel Peace Prize winner Carl Von Ossietzky succumbed last Tuesday to tuberculosis, German authorities have announced this morning. French foreign secretary Georges-Etienne Bonnet reacted to the sad news by—’</p><p>Knock knock knock knock knock.</p><p>Tintin started at the unexpected noise, almost spilling hot chocolate on a month-old edition of <em>The Times</em>. Who on earth could be visiting him at nine o’clock in the evening without prior notice? At once on the alert, he slowly stood up and walked over to his transistor radio to turn it off. Had it come from another flat or his own front door? Perhaps some distant relative visiting Monsieur Monceau again? No, the knocks had been too loud and clear, albeit quick and careful. Five rapid-fire knocks. Not the Captain’s style at all. But it might still be him.</p><p>He braced himself, but all was quiet now. Had he imagined the sound?</p><p>The Captain would have telephoned him first.</p><p>Knock knock knock knock knock.</p><p>Once again, he started at the noise. <em>Well, that was definitely real.</em> He tried to think through his stupor. Some nosy stranger was most likely. Probably a shameless journalist who had wheedled his way into the building to try and worm a confession out of him; Madame Pinson was not the smartest concierge—bless her heart—and not all reporters shared his own sense of right and wrong, to say the least.</p><p>All the more reason to raise anchor the next day.</p><p>Knock knock knock knock knock.</p><p>Experience having taught him to always prepare for the worst, he swiftly made for his desk and reached into one of the drawers. It had been quite a while since he had last held his 7mm pistol. It made him momentarily forget how tired he was. Barefoot and in his night clothes, he slowly walked into the living-room, then to the front door, careful not to stand right in front of it.</p><p>The Captain would have called out his name by then.</p><p>‘Who is it?’ he finally asked in a stern voice.</p><p>‘A friend’, a male voice replied, barely audible. ‘A friend and a colleague. Anatole Faure, independent reporter. May I speak to you?’</p><p>Both annoyed and oddly disappointed, Tintin gave a heavy sigh, all tension leaving him like air a deflating balloon. He tucked his gun into his pyjama trousers against his back and opened the door, mustering all of his willpower to remain as polite as humanly possible.</p><p>‘Listen, sir, you can’t simply—’</p><p>The eyes of the fakir. They were back, right there in front of him, boring into his very soul. His words got stuck in his throat. He blinked once, and just like that, they were gone. He blamed the fleeting vision on his lack of sleep, for in front of him stood an ordinary man. There was nothing unusual about his eyes at all. He was just a lanky stranger in a dark green suit, with perfectly combed hair and a pocket watch. Elegant. Banal. Boring. The only thing slightly peculiar about his appearance were his naturally severe, hard-angled eyebrows which should have given him the air of a perpetually angry man and yet did not. How odd.</p><p>‘Good evening, Monsieur Tintin.’</p><p>Tintin slowly blinked, then couldn’t help but yawn like an exhausted puppy.</p><p>‘I beg your pardon, I…Listen, sir, I don’t know how—'</p><p>What Tintin saw next made him wonder if he had fallen asleep at his desk and this was actually a dream. The man was pressing a finger against his own lips, all the while holding a piece of paper up for him to read.</p><p>MICROPHONE IN YOUR FLAT. ACT NORMAL. GRANT ME AN INTERVIEW.</p><p>Tintin stared at the paper for a moment, then looked up to meet the stranger’s eyes again. His brain felt sluggish, like an old engine needing time to get its full vigor back and running.</p><p>‘I understand it is very late indeed, and I sincerely apologize for disturbing you at such an hour. I have just arrived from Paris, you see… and seeing as I am staying at Hôtel Lavoisier, I thought to myself: why wait until tomorrow to introduce myself when a three-minute walk is all it takes to be at Monsieur Tintin’s door?’ <em>What on earth... </em>‘May I come in? Oh, am I… disturbing you in the middle of something? I'm sorry, I didn’t even ask whether you had company or not.' He marked a pause in his speech then. A very pregnant pause. 'Do you?’ <em>No. He can’t be meaning that.</em> ‘Oh, I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’</p><p>‘I don’t.’</p><p>‘Oh. Very well, then.’</p><p>His baritone voice was soft, gentle, unthreatening. He seemed sweet and subdued when he spoke, and that mellow tone made him look like the type of person who would rather get themselves into trouble than risk disturbing anyone. And yet… the sweetness in his voice, however genuine, was disconcerting. It didn’t fit what was happening at all, and more worryingly, it made Tintin feel very uncomfortable.</p><p>His dark eyes were fixed on his, dead serious, communicating beyond words. The <em>intensity</em>. It was subtle, but it was there all right, and it explained the flash of the fakir, Tintin realised. Faure held the piece of paper higher, urging him on. The young reporter was rarely at a loss for words, but now was one of those times. He struggled to remain rational, to see past the strange warmth and excitement rushing through his veins.</p><p>A microphone? Impossible. Who would hide a microphone in his flat? What for? He had many enemies, certainly, but he lived alone and rarely ever spoke to himself now that Milou was gone. A microphone would be pointless, not to mention that for a couple of years now, apart from a few meditative journeys towards distant lands, he had been leading quite an uneventful life. Besides, there was no way he wouldn't have noticed a bloody microphone hidden in his little flat. This was absurd. <em>Then why—</em></p><p>‘Monsieur Tintin? Are you alright? You seem…’</p><p> ‘I… Look, sir… I—', he stuttered, struggling to sound as natural as possible. ‘Now is not the time for an interview, especially…’</p><p>‘Please, Monsieur, I’ll make it quick, I promise. We can begin tonight, then continue tomorrow.’</p><p>‘No, I—I’m afraid I won’t be able to receive you tomorrow. I’m leaving for Spain first thing in the morning, you see.’</p><p>‘Spain? To cover the civil war?’</p><p>‘Obviously.’</p><p>‘Well, all the more reason to let me speak to you tonight. I’m only asking for five minutes of your time. Please, I promise you that I'll remain professional and utterly respectful despite the… nature of the situation you’ve found yourself in.’</p><p>Tintin cringed, both at his words and, again, at his strange voice. It was so mellow... Naturally so, not affected, he could tell...</p><p>‘I… what… what newspaper are you working for?’</p><p>‘I’m an independent reporter’, the man repeated, before adding after a pause: ‘as you probably will be very soon.’ He was holding the paper practically in his face now. ‘That being said, I plan on selling my article to La Voix du Peuple.’ Tintin's head was reeling, dozens of thoughts popping up at once. Anatole Faure… Anatole Faure… No, he had never heard the name before, and yet he knew the names of all the current independent reporters writing for the famous French communist newspaper. Was he a new one, or was he lying? A microphone… A microphone… Surely he would have noticed such a conspicuous device! Wouldn't he? Were there brand new models he didn't know about? Faure was still staring at him with those queer ordinary eyes. ‘A far cry from Le Vingtième Siècle, as you must know…', he went on. 'Do you have any issue with my writing for a communist newspaper?’</p><p>‘N—not at all. Alright, then… I guess I… I should make a statement about…’ The intensity of his gaze made him look away, and finally, he yielded. He stepped out of the doorway almost unconsciously, inviting him in.  ‘Please, come in.’</p><p>He needed to get a grip and <em>think</em>.</p><p>He knew himself. His insatiable curiosity and thirst for adventure always won in the end. The man intrigued him. The idea of a secret microphone hidden in his flat, however absurd, even more. Naturally, there was a good chance Anatole Faure would soon turn out to be either yet another crook or a lost soul attracted by his fame, but even then, it would not have been a waste of time; observing human beings was by far his favourite pastime, that and puzzle solving, but was there really a difference between the two? There was another option however, but that one didn’t make it above the surface of his consciousness. <em><br/></em></p><p><em>Tall men move awkwardly</em>, he absent-mindedly thought as the lanky stranger stepped inside his little flat and immediately began his eccentric search. He watched him scan his entire living-room and kitchenette, all the while making sure to constantly face him so as not to reveal his pistol, just in case. There was something about his presence here, about the presence of <em>a man</em> in his home so late at night after what had happened the previous day which made his face hot and his palms damp—a side effect of public shaming, he told himself.</p><p>When Faure inspected his Bauhaus lamp, he knew. There was no microphone. Even the latest models of miniature radio transmitters were still far too large to fit inside of a lamp. So what was that man really doing here?</p><p>‘If I may, Monsieur Tintin, I would like to give you some advice.’ Something in Tintin’s stomach twisted as the mellow voice hit his ears again. Faure picked up his late 19<sup>th</sup>-century metal globe to check for possible openings. Did he really think he could fool the young reporter with such a ludicrous act? A microphone, here? With no power source? ‘Don’t shut yourself away. Silence will only make things worse given the current political context. I suggest you firmly deny those accusations as quickly as possible.’</p><p>‘Why are you here?’</p><p>‘Then again, it may already be too late…’ Faure went on, ignoring him. He placed the globe back onto the buffet then once again put his index finger against his lips. An increasingly skeptical Tintin let him continue. ‘But here’s what I want to know… Why didn’t you defend yourself right away? I mean, anybody would have done so. Anyone would have felt offended, would have fought back, would have felt the urge to save their honour, no matter the truth. But you didn’t. You accepted the allegations and everything that comes with them. The public shaming, the ostracising… You’re embracing them because you refuse to lie. They’re true, aren’t they?’ For a few crushing seconds, the only sound in the room was of an automobile getting parked somewhere down the street below. ‘You know, as a human rights activist and a homophile myself, your case interests me. A lot.’</p><p>Tintin didn’t register the sudden revelation right away, not unlike a victim whose brain cannot instantly fathom the abrupt upheaval caused by some traumatic event. He was frozen, and oddly calm. Faure went on, now running his large hands over his twin bookcases as if he had just been talking about the weather. ‘You do realise that there is absolutely no way you’ll be able to work for a Catholic newspaper ever again now, don’t you? Unless you attack him, the one who started it all. You could accuse him, flip it around, tell everyone he was trying to blackmail you and you resisted. You could say he was the one desiring you. That you rejected his advances and thus were the victim of his revenge. But you’re not going to do that… The great Tintin always does what’s right.’</p><p>He had his hands over the kitchen cupboards when he said that, now standing on a chair, although Tintin barely paid any attention to his movements now. It wasn’t sarcasm, that last sentence. It was something worse; a sort of sad verbal wink mixed with genuine admiration. Faure’s eyes were on him again. He was looming over him like some almighty figure of Justice, omniscient and fair, demanding he speak.</p><p>‘Listen, I—I’m not… I—’ Tintin’s throat hurt. Why was it so hard? He tried to swallow the lump, but it only got worse. ‘I have never…’ he tried again. ‘Never… in my life…’</p><p>‘Care if I have a smoke?’ Faure interjected, effectively saving him from his own embarrassment. Tintin barely shook his head in response. He kept his eyes to the floor as the stranger climbed down his chair and lit a cigarette up with a golden lighter. Their arms brushed as he walked past him towards the sofa, and Tintin’s skin was left hot from the fleeting contact. After a moment of confused shame, he politely fetched an ashtray from one of the kitchen cupboards and placed it on the coffee table for him to use, his cheeks burning from the odd impression of standing stark naked in front of him. He definitely couldn’t look him in the eye now, and so walked over to the window of his living-room, opened it wide, then took a deep breath of the lukewarm evening air to clear his mind. The sky was navy blue, weak remnants of sunlight lingering towards the West. There were only a few weeks left until summer now. Time was a rushing mystery slowly destroying everything and everyone.</p><p>
  <em>Shoot, the gun!</em>
</p><p>He turned round too quickly. There was no way Faure hadn’t seen it. To his bewilderment, he found the room empty, until the man’s velvety voice hit his ears again, this time coming from his study.</p><p>‘I know what you’re going through, simply because I went through it myself. I know just how hard it is to speak about such things, to <em>have </em>to speak about them—to feel exposed, condemned, <em>dehumanized.</em> One must have a lot of courage not to go up in arms against such a verdict. I know I did, at first. It is, after all, a life sentence. Not defending yourself isn’t weak. Quite the contrary. It is an extraordinarily brave thing to do.’</p><p>And just like that, Tintin was fuming. He scoffed, something he usually never did. Faure was looking at his Chinese gong, having taken the liberty to break into his study without the slightest consideration for his privacy, and he had the nerve to praise him for running away and simply not being a liar?</p><p>‘Why are you here?’ Tintin repeated, voice somber and steady.</p><p>‘What are your plans now that you lost your job?’ Faure went on, ignoring him and reaching for the gong.</p><p>‘I did not lose my job’, he replied through gritted teeth.</p><p>‘If you say so’, Faure said, sighing empathetically, which angered Tintin even more. ‘Say, do you have anything to drink? Some wine, maybe? It would make it easier for both of us. I’m starving too. Have you had supper yet? Don’t worry, I’m not trying to… obtain anything from you.’</p><p>That tone... He was not a journalist. He was not a harmless lunatic. He was some perverted maniac here to… to…</p><p>Yet again, Tintin’s brain short-circuited. Anatole Faure had just taken the heavy Chinese artefact in his hands and turned it around. Behind it was some metal box Tintin had never seen. It had been fixed there against the bronze by some neat welding work, and was about half the size of the gong. Faure pointed at one of the six visible screws securing its lid, then at Tintin’s radio across the room. He instantly got it. It was true. There was a microphone, and here it was. The sound of the radio would cover up the noise caused by the removal of the lid, at least partially so. He was left speechless.</p><p>But where was its power source? Did it have anything to do with what professor Tournesol was currently working on? Hadn't he spoken about "telecontrol", as he put it? And thus his anger all but vanished in an instant, only to be replaced by a feeling he knew so very well and had been missing almost as much as he was missing the Captain. At long last, after so many months, fully realised, tangible, <em>visceral</em>, came the thrills of a new adventure.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Anatole (part three)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span class="aCOpRe">É</span>léonore watched him read the letter, watched as an array of feelings began to shift his features, a most fascinating thing to behold, like masks from some ancient Greek tragedy. She successively perceived fearful apprehension, neutral concentration, restrained emotion, and then, suddenly, an expression of plain shock fell upon his face as his gaze stumbled upon words she couldn’t see. He remained like that for a long moment, only blinking a few times as if to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, the words so powerful his brain visibly struggled to process them. Eventually, his eyes slowly began to move over the text again, and he finished the letter white with stupor. For a moment then, she wondered if he was going to faint. She was about to call his name when without warning, he swiftly turned round and stomped out of Tintin’s study, pulling its door wide open so hard that it smashed against the wall with a bang. The little flat shook with the force of the impact, as did her small body, and she stared, speechless, at the door which had bounced, then at the new hole where its handle had collided with the wall. Taking a deep breath, she followed him into the living-room.</p><p>He was now inspecting the cigarette butts left on the coffee table, looking a little like a mad man. To her bewilderment, he put one of them into the inner pocket of his jacket, not minding how insane and unsanitary that was. His fingers were trembling. She called out his name then, gently. He didn’t respond. His wet gaze was frantically roaming around the room, not minding her presence. She felt a pang in her heart, bracing herself for the moment he would break down, because he did look about to lose control. He drew a quivering sigh and that was her cue. She immediately stepped towards him to pull him into her arms, but instead of bursting into tears, he strode towards the door they had left untouched, oblivious to her gesture. Tintin’s bedroom. This time however, the door was spared. He froze before it, hesitating, before opening it surprisingly gently. She kept her distance at first, respectful of the weird silence which made the gurgling of some close-by pigeon jarringly loud, but she couldn’t help peeking inside after an endless minute of nothing happening. He was just standing there before Tintin’s bed which had been left quite conspicuously unmade. She could only see his back, his shoulders slowly heaving in a brewing rhythm. Was he weeping? No, he was seething; panting and trembling with rage. He bolted back into Tintin’s study, almost knocking her off in the process, then began to ransack it, not bothering to stay quiet at all. It was already quite miraculous that the concierge wasn't already here after his first outburst; nevertheless, she didn't even try to stop him. At first, he simply scanned the papers left on the desk with that same mad gaze, then carelessly proceeded to empty drawers, shelves and folders, making books, journals, files and carefully organized archives fly all over the room. Whatever he deemed interesting he threw towards the same corner, she realized after a moment, and a small heap of various documents was formed there in no time. Not knowing what to do, she took a chair, feeling like a small but confident therapist, and proceeded to simply wait. It was queer to feel grateful in such a moment, to feel privileged to be there to witness this, and she felt a little guilty. After two minutes of watching him, she wished she had her bottle of gin with her. After three, she wondered if the pristine boy reporter kept some spirits in a secret stash. Perhaps under his bed.</p><p>‘Archie…’</p><p>‘Stop calling me that, blistering barnacles!’ he spat. </p><p><em>Well, this is new. </em>‘Alright. <em>Archibald</em>—’</p><p>‘No. Hate that bloody name. Captain. Captain Haddock. Haddock. Whatever. Anything but <em>that</em>.’</p><p>‘I find it pleasantly British.’</p><p>‘Rrhmr... Can’t stand it.’</p><p>‘You can’t stand your own Britishness?’ He didn’t reply. He just kept on doing whatever he was doing—namely, rummaging through his secret love’s private documents. <em>Dear Lord</em>. ‘Anything interesting?’ she asked, stating the obvious just to make him talk some more.</p><p>He stopped. ‘Spain.’</p><p>She frowned at that. ‘Spain?’</p><p>‘Mmrr.’</p><p>‘But—’</p><p>‘That concierge’s got the brains of a jellyfish. Must’ve mixed them up.’</p><p>‘Mixed them up? Spain with Germany?’ she asked, incredulous.</p><p>Once again, he didn’t reply. She stood up and settled on the floor beside him amidst the strewn-out papers then, needing to see for herself, and she picked up the newspaper on the top of the pile of selected documents. It was a 1936 edition of <em>La Renaixensa, Diari de Catalunya</em>. The second one she noticed was in Catalan too. Then she saw a map of Spain. Then the picture of Franco on the cover of another newspaper. Soon, she was perusing the entire pile, and it didn’t take her long to realise that the young reporter had spent weeks, if not months, doing some research about the Spanish civil war, and more specifically on Catalonia and the very recent battle of Gandesa. There were countless newspapers, some cut-out articles, quite a few books and maps, and even four dictionaries, all of them filled with notes scribbled by Tintin himself. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he had been planning to go to Catalonia to meet up with some Republicans. He had been learning Catalan. He had been learning about the politics, about the history, about the geography of the whole country. He had been targeting a town called Corbera d’Ebre. When she saw his notes about the Catalan language, she was instantly impressed.</p><p>‘What’s in the letter?’ she asked in a soft voice, taking him aback.</p><p>‘Oriol Savall’, he said to himself, ignoring her.</p><p>‘Pardon?’, she asked, confused. He got up and left the room. She instantly followed, watching him as he picked up Tintin’s telephone.</p><p>‘Hello miss, I need you to find a number for me. Oriol Savall, in Spain. Lives in Corbera d’Ebre, 3 Carrer de l’Eglésias. Spain. Corbera d’Ebre. C. O. R. B…’</p><p>Thank God this Oriol Savall had a telephone, because he obtained the number after a good ten minutes, and such a wait obviously did nothing good for his heart. After another excruciating fifteen minutes involving three intermediary telephone operators, he was finally connected to that man’s landline. No-one picked up.</p><p>‘Raggle taggle ruminant FUCK!’</p><p>
  <em>Oh dear.</em>
</p><p>‘Wait, how are you so sure that he’s not in Germany?’ she interjected, trying to divert his attention in order to calm him down.</p><p>‘Shit. Barnacles. Fuck!’</p><p>‘Archie…bald. Haddock', she awkwardly corrected herself.</p><p>‘God… how could I…’ he began, never finishing, for a majestic bark of laughter erupted from deep within his chest instead. Her blood froze. It was bad laughter. Hysterical laughter.</p><p>‘Captain, tell me—’ she tried again. He couldn't stop laughing now. 'Captain!'</p><p>‘The letter!’ he boomed at her, making her jump.</p><p>‘Yes? What about it?’</p><p>‘He wrote it!’</p><p>She looked at him, dumbfounded. He was still laughing, hiccoughing with the force of it. Had he gone properly mad? ‘What?’</p><p>‘Spain! He wrote it! That’s how I’m sure. Must’ve gone there with his <em>lover.’ </em>He wasn’t just laughing. He was laughing and crying at the same time.</p><p>‘Tell me what—’</p><p>‘Let’s go’, he just said.</p><p>‘Wait, what? Wait! Archie!</p><p>He was already out.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Anatole (part four)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He felt like the Captain burning his throat with a long-awaited shot of whiskey. Mystery. Danger. Adrenaline. It was just what he needed right now—some thrilling intrigue to embrace, to latch onto, to lose himself in. He walked over to his radio and turned it on, while Faure closed the curtains. A lively popular song by Charles Trenet filled the small room. The older man then retrieved a miniature screwdriver from his suit jacket and started the delicate job—the slightest suspicious noise could give him away.</p><p><em>Why is he even doing this?</em> Tintin suddenly thought. <em>Why open it? Why not simply leave it as it is? To make sure it really is a microphone? To prove it to me? To study it? Find some clues? If it were to be made inoperative, say by being disconnected by accident, whoever put it in here would know. Simply leaving it untouched would be the smartest thing to do, giving us the upper hand. We could even set up a trap for them. </em><em>We? <strong>Us?</strong> </em>Tintin observed the stranger in his study. <em>Why is this man helping me and why do I feel that I can trust him? Who is he really, and how did he find out about this? Is he from Interpol? Then that would mean he is under Nazi control now*... No, this doesn't make sense... does it? Why am I being spied on? Is it somehow linked with the Spanish war? Are there more microphones here or is this the only one? Is this all fake? Am I being deceived?<br/></em></p><p>He had so many questions his head began to hurt. Faure looked at him. ‘Have you lost your tongue?’ he asked him in good humour, teasing him.</p><p>Tintin struggled to improvise, the French love song distracting him even more.</p><p>
  <em>‘Un doux parfum qu’on respire, c’est fleur bleue.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Un regard qui vous attire, c’est fleur bleue. </em>
</p><p><em>Des mots difficiles à dire, c’est fleur bleue.’</em> **</p><p>‘I haven’t, actually… had supper yet…’, he finally spoke. ‘And… you’re right. It’s tough… I do need a drink…although… I don’t normally care for alcohol.’</p><p>‘But you do have some, right?’</p><p>‘I do. And some leftover soup.’</p><p>‘Wine?’</p><p>‘Yes. Red. Quite the millésime, actually. 1927 Gevrey-Chambertin.’</p><p>‘My, oh my…’</p><p>
  <em>‘On jure que l’on s’adore, tous les deux.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Et l’on jugerait encore, si fleur bleue…’ ***<br/></em>
</p><p> ‘So… I am officially invited for dinner then.’</p><p>‘Yes’, Tintin answered too quickly, a very bad actor at that moment.</p><p>‘Your enthusiasm flatters me’, Faure gently laughed. ‘You’re leaving for Spain tomorrow morning, you said… when exactly?’</p><p>‘Around six.’</p><p>‘Mmh… Quite a risky trip for a French-speaking reporter right now... We’re hated by both sides, and for good reasons.’</p><p>‘I am Belgian, not French. I’m quite sure people will be able to understand the difference.’</p><p>‘Your optimism should not blind you.’</p><p>‘It doesn’t. I know what to expect.’</p><p>‘If you say so.’</p><p>
  <em>‘Et je suis seul dans la rue, larmes aux yeux.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Larmes aux yeux, larmes aux yeux.’ ****</em>
</p><p>‘By the way, be careful with that gun. It’s been slowly slipping down the waistband of your night trousers for a few minutes now…’</p><p>‘I—I—It has a safety lock’, Tintin stuttered, completely taken aback. At once dreadfully self-conscious, he cursed himself for not having had the presence of mind to put his bathrobe on.  He reached for the small weapon which had indeed almost slipped down his trousers and carefully put it on his desk next to him. Thankfully, Faure wasn’t looking at him at all, too busy working on the so-called microphone and not concerned at all that the younger man was armed.</p><p>‘Accidents do happen’, he retorted just as he deftly removed another screw. Tintin noticed that his long fingers weren’t trembling at all. They were moving slowly, steadily, with precision, grace even, not once struggling or hesitating. His features seemed completely relaxed.</p><p>This was no amateur.</p><p>All of a sudden, his dark eyes locked into his own, and Tintin’s heart jolted. Without a word, he encouraged the younger man to continue, to play along, but Tintin was reluctant. He did not get why such pretense was necessary. He needed to understand what was going on. Everything.</p><p>‘Do I embarrass you?’ Faure said, sounding flirtatious and amused. ‘You’re blushing. A lot.’</p><p>Another love song began. His heart now properly hammering in his chest, Tintin shook his head, not answering his question but his eyes, sending him in turn a silent message—<em>No. Don’t do that. I don’t want to. I can’t. </em></p><p>Four screws left. Faure slowly nodded in response, but not to express any concession, quite the contrary, his sharp eyes somehow both apologetic and insistent: <em>I’m sorry but we have to. Do it. Play along.</em></p><p><em>But why? Why are you doing this?</em> Tintin wanted to shout at him. <em>You’re playing with my… with my… </em></p><p>‘You’re short of breath too’, Faure then went on in a soft seductive tone, unrelenting and unbearably intimate. ‘It’s alright. As I’ve already said, I know what you’re going through.’ He focused back on the metal box and proceeded to remove a third screw, and yet, he never broke character. ‘I used to be just like you.’ He marked a dramatic pause. ‘Scared of my own desire.’ Tintin couldn’t listen to this. He turned away and his hands instinctively went up to cover his ears before he caught himself, embarrassed at his own childish reaction. Instead, he did the sign of the cross, praying for God to protect him, as a good Catholic should, and as usual a little voice in his head scoffed at him, mocking his own faith. He ignored it. ‘I was pretending that everything was fine, that <em>I</em> was fine. I used to be the perfect boy, the perfect student, the perfect son... hiding behind a carefully crafted self, keeping a<em> stiff upper lip</em>, as the English call it. I was in control. <em>Manly.</em> The truth was, I was slowly but surely destroying myself.’</p><p>Three screws left. Faure risked a glance towards him and only looked even more apologetic.</p><p>‘I even married a girl, you know? Poor thing… I lied to her, lied to her parents… to myself too, obviously. I went to church every day… prayed a lot… You do that too, don’t you? Praying, I mean.’</p><p>Had he seen him do the sign of the cross? There was no way he hadn’t. At this point, Tintin left the room, barely remembering to grab his gun along the way. He walked over to the living-room window once again and leant against its edge, gun still in hand. He felt faint from the abrupt dissection, like a helpless frog pinned on a laboratory table to be cut open, and for what? Why was Faure even doing this? Surely there was another way to trick the enemy!</p><p>Faure didn’t come after him. Weirdly, this made him even angrier, and before long, he was stomping back into his own study gun in hand, head high, and determined to put to stop to this madness.</p><p>‘You’re a virgin, aren’t you?’ Faure threw at him as soon as he was back, the indecent words like a slap to the face. Tintin gasped. <em>How dare he?</em> The man's finger was back against his mouth, his face jarringly calm and compassionate. He very clearly mouthed ‘I’m sorry’, and only then did Tintin notice another note in his right hand. He stilled, hesitating. Faure wasn’t handing him the note; he was only holding it up for him to read, like the first one, which meant Tintin had to step closer. Why? Lips tight and seething, Tintin eventually moved, tucking his gun back into his waistband. He stayed as far away from the man as he could and read his message. This time, it was entirely written in lower case. His handwriting suited him—long and elegant.</p><p>
  <strong>passive device activated from outside by strong electromagnetic signal? need to check.</strong>
</p><p>The question mark was large. Tintin barely had time to process the bizarre piece of information when the obscene monologue resumed, a Tino Rossi song almost muffling Faure’s voice now. He had turned the volume up.</p><p>‘Most men like us try at least once, you know; usually with a prostitute. Some are able to desire women and so it works; they think they’re cured and move on to marriage, repressing their hidden half all their life. Those are the luckiest ones.’ The second to last screw came off. He slowly took it and put it in his pocket, before going for the last one. ‘For proper homosexuals however, it naturally doesn’t work, but many still believe it might with a respectable woman. They seek love. They marry. Sometimes they manage to start a family, sometimes they never succeed. Sometimes, they are able to find happiness with their wife despite the lack of children. Despite the lack of sex. Lucky men too...’</p><p>
  <em>'Et dans ma fièvre, je veux toujours</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vivre ce beau rêve d’amour...' *****</em>
</p><p>Tintin felt cold sweat under his night shirt. He shuddered at the word ‘sex’, but he was only half-listening to Faure’s verbal onslaught now, the mysterious box absorbing his attention like quicksand. At long last, the last screw came off. ‘But then…’, Faure went on, grabbing the metal lid. Tintin held his breath. ‘…there are those who can never find happiness.’ He gently removed it and handed it over to Tintin, who, although still incensed, nevertheless stepped forward to take it from his hands without any hesitation, becoming the unlikely assistant to the man who was currently violating his most intimate self to his face. The absurd situation was forcing him to perform some kind of cerebral and emotional gymnastics completely new to him.</p><p>Faure reached into his suit jacket for another object, a large fountain pen, which he brought close to the device. It lit up like a small torch, making Tintin realise how dark it had become in his study; his small desk lamp and the light coming from the living-room were now the only other sources of light. He couldn’t help but step even closer, needing to take a proper look at the thing. He instantly identified several parts, including a silver-plated cylinder, a supporting ring and a copper rod—the wave whip. This was a microphone alright; and yet the design of it was unlike anything he had ever seen. A passive device activated from afar? By a strong electromagnetic signal? How strong? How close did the operator need to be? He once again thought about the professor. If only he were here with him right now…</p><p>With a rather violent start, he realised just how close he had been standing to Faure and jerked back. When he looked up at him, the tall man was watching him intently, as if to say: <em>‘See? Do you believe me now?’</em> The music had switched on to some epic opera aria with a screeching tenor. Tintin’s headache intensified. He watched Faure take his pocket watch in his hand and hold it towards the microphone; he pressed its upper button with his thumb, then looked at it, apparently checking the time. What was it? A camera? So small? It couldn’t be!</p><p>‘Worst of all… is to fall in love. You then become sick with longing… sick with anguish and self-loathing… and you did, didn’t you?' <em>Don’t listen to him. This is an act. This is theatre. Don’t let it get to you. </em>‘Don’t be afraid, I don’t want to hurt you. Quite the contrary, in fact… if you give me the honour to let me… But could I even hurt you if I tried? Physically, I mean. Everyone knows how strong the famous Tintin is… oh yes… you could’ve easily thrown me out… and yet here you are, listening to me in rapt silence… drinking in my every word…’ His voice was too powerful. Irresistible. Tintin felt it slither softly into his veins like hot chocolate, making his blood heavier. ‘I envy you, you know? Your bravery… your youth… your beauty. You do realise it, I hope, how beautiful you are... No? Well, I’m telling you: you’re a handsome man, Monsieur Tintin. Very handsome indeed. Some might even say pretty. Does it bother you? It shouldn’t. God, you’re so pretty right now… blushing so hard… It won’t be difficult for you at all to find a partner… to feel good at last…for once.’</p><p>‘How old are you?’ Tintin surprised himself, still staring at the microphone. There were no words, no marks that could’ve indicated who had manufactured it. Perhaps if it were taken apart… Faure had begun to scribble fast on another piece of paper. His speech was becoming more erotic by the second, and perhaps that was why Tintin had put a clever stop to it. The older man froze at the unexpected question and looked at him, a fleeting glint of pleased surprise in his serious eyes.</p><p>'38.’</p><p>‘It’s still young’, Tintin replied.</p><p>‘You think so?’</p><p>‘I do.’</p><p>‘Do you find me attractive?’</p><p>‘I—’</p><p>‘Answer me.’</p><p>‘This—I… I can’t.’</p><p>‘Why? It’s just the two of us here...’ He was back to scribbling his message, not without some urgency. Feeling the tension rise, Tintin reached behind his back to grab his gun again, just in case, and turned around to glance into the living-room and at the front door a dozen feet away. ‘Take my hand… Come on, take it… no-one will ever know…’ Again, the older man didn’t give him the note. His eyes looked jet black now, steady, dangerous, but there was no sign of deception in them at all.</p><p><strong>We have to leave. They’re here, down the street. Rosalie van. <span class="u">Pack lightly. </span></strong> <strong>Forgive me for what I had to say. It was the most efficient way to trick them.</strong></p><p>Tintin’s head shot up. ‘Who?’ he mouthed.</p><p>Faure then turned the paper over, having anticipated the question.</p><p>
  <strong>I don’t know for certain. 3 hypotheses, 1 <span class="u">certainty</span>:</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>&gt; people interested in Tournesol’s work, hoping to gather intelligence from you.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>&gt; people who are scared of you, of what you may do.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>&gt; both aforementioned options.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>&gt; <span class="u">people with a lot of money and advanced technology</span> = Nazis, Soviets, Americans?</strong>
</p><p>His skin prickling with adrenaline, Tintin once again met his black gaze and closed his gaping mouth. It was as if he were seeing him for the first time. Was Anatole Faure even his real name? An endless high note from the tenor then accompanied his most obscene words yet. Tintin couldn’t escape them. He listened helplessly, eyes going wide.</p><p>‘Feels so good, uh? Yes… that's right... come on, let me give you more… no-one will know… except your concierge maybe, or your neighbours... if you can’t remain quiet, that is… Do you think you can?’</p><p>No-one had ever spoken to him like that—<em>no-one, except the Captain in your sickest dreams</em>, the little voice in his head reminded him. It felt real, far too real. Faure was speaking to the floor, a remarkable actor, pretending they had just done something together, sounding very much aroused, and even if Tintin knew it was fake, his torrid words and sweet, <em>sweet </em>voice strengthened the warm and tingly arousal already tormenting him. His flesh and blood were being fooled along with the spies currently eavesdropping the obscene exchange, dragging his unwilling mind along with them into unknown waters. Usually, he loved the unknown. Now, all he wanted was to escape.</p><p>Faure’s own voice became breathless. ‘Stop thinking so much. Let go. Yes… that’s it… let me show you... sshh... Where’s your bedroom?’</p><p>And then he moved. Tintin barely had time to react when he walked past him and grabbed his arm, guiding him out. Tintin flinched hard and had to repress the urge to knock him out with a good left hook. He managed to look up at him again. God was he tall, taller than the Captain for sure. His own face was beet red, but he sustained his black gaze. Faure mouthed some words he did not get, then tried to grab his arm again, but Tintin tore himself away, trying to discreetly hide his own crotch, feeling like a beast.</p><p>‘Calm down’, Faure whispered. ‘Let me speak to you’, he added, pointing at his own ear, then at him. No, there was absolutely no way Tintin would let him whisper in his ear right now.</p><p>‘Write it down’, he silently spat.</p><p>Faure nodded, then stepped back, careful not to come too close to him now. He swiftly wrote a long message, then handed him the piece of paper this time. Tintin didn’t take it right away, surprised at the change.</p><p>
  <strong>Naturally, you are free to stay. Following me won’t be easy, to say the least. You will have to lie, to pretend, to <span class="u">deceive</span>. You may very well lose your life. You may have to kill. You can stay here, go to Spain, leave Europe. <span class="u">Hide.</span> Think fast.</strong>
</p><p>Tintin took this both as an insult and a challenge, glaring back at him in response. ‘No’, he mouthed, shaking his head. ‘I’m in.’ Faure looked at him for a long moment, searching for something in his eyes, sadness in his own—and guilt, Tintin realised for the first time—then began to write again.</p><p>
  <strong>Your choice. My car is parked outside. We will be followed. Bring your gun and all your ammunitions. Close the curtains first. </strong>
</p><p>Tintin nodded. He quickly moved into his tiny bedroom, closed the curtains, then grabbed the bare necessities in no time, stuffing ammunitions, clothes and his toothbrush into his smaller mountain bag. He jumped when he felt Faure’s presence beside him. Another paper was brought very close to his face.</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="u">THERE IS NO GOING BACK.</span> </strong>
</p><p>Tintin straightened up and looked up at him, defiant. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered to his face. Faure was too close. The heat in his cheeks and chest returned full force, but he didn’t flinch.</p><p>‘Not here. Let’s go.’</p><p>'Are you an Interpol agent?'</p><p>Again, Faure marked a pause, before repeating: 'Not here.'</p><p>'I won't work for Hitler', Tintin retorted.</p><p>'Good. Neither will I.'</p><p>Tintin studied him, then nodded. 'Where are we going?'</p><p>Faure hesitated, but he answered him, again holding up his written warning. ‘Germany.’</p><p>Again, Tintin didn't flinch. He tried to decipher what he was implying instead. ‘Is this a suicide mission?’ he asked, surprising Faure, and an almost imperceptible shadow came over the older man’s eyes as he looked away, then back at him, and answered, whispering:</p><p>‘Odds are not in our favour. But the plan is for at least one of us to survive.’</p><p>‘One of us...’</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>'You came here to recruit me?'</p><p>Faure did not answer, looking deep into his eyes instead. Tintin took it as a yes. ‘What’s with the pocket watch?’</p><p>‘It’s a magnetometer. A rudimentary one, but enough to detect unusually high signals.’</p><p>‘Why are you doing this? What’s your goal? <em>Who are you?’</em></p><p>Faure pondered his answer for a moment. He bent over and grabbed Tintin’s sheets, surprising the young reporter, and practically ripped them from the bed only to let them flop down on it in a wild pile. He then said, dead serious: ‘To save millions of lives. Civilians.’</p><p>Tintin was staring at his own bed, lost in thought, but then his head shot up. ‘Civilians?’</p><p>‘Yes’, Faure simply replied.</p><p>
  <em>‘Millions?’</em>
</p><p>Faure didn’t reply. For another long dramatic moment, he simply looked at him, and Tintin couldn't look away, feeling some electricity in the air around them. <em>This is a man of power</em>, he thought. <em>A man with a mission. A man with a burden.</em> His mind was reeling. Millions of civilians were in danger? Where? How? What intelligence had he gathered to have come to such a surreal conclusion? Was he a mad man after all? A mad man with extraordinary acting skills?</p><p>Or some double agent tricking him from the beginning...</p><p>‘Who are you?’ Tintin asked again with a tinge of threat in his voice.</p><p>Faure’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile, his eyes still steady and soft and sad. They were beautiful.</p><p>‘Call me Anatole.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Here was the final part of this chapter. To listen to the song by Charles Trenet mentioned in it, click<br/><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dfYfPKYlHuQ">here</a><br/>For the one by Tino Rossi, click<br/><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ESYeevK6G88">here</a><br/>* After the Anschluss in April 1938, Nazi Germany took control of Interpol, then based in Austria.<br/>** A sweet perfume which you breathe in, it's romantic. / A gaze which attracts you, it's romantic. / Difficult words to say, it's romantic. ["Fleur bleue" literally means "blue flower", but it is also an idiom meaning sentimental or romantic].<br/>*** We swear that we adore each other, it's romantic. / And we would still be swearing, if, sentimentally...<br/>**** And I am alone in the street, tears in my eyes. / Tears in my eyes, tears in my eyes.<br/>***** And in my fever, I still want / to experience this beautiful love dream...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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